


The Beginning: Dreadful Little Things

by threemeows



Series: There's Magic in Details [1]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before (Movies), To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han
Genre: i don't even know what i'm doing anymore guys haha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 40,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27050512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: It’s dreadful what little things lead people to misunderstand each other. – LM MontgomeryMissing scenes from the first, second, and when we get there, the third (!!!!) movies.
Relationships: Peter Kavinsky & Lara Jean Song-Covey, Peter Kavinsky/Lara Jean Song-Covey
Series: There's Magic in Details [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185527
Comments: 173
Kudos: 254





	1. Dinner Date

**Author's Note:**

> It’s dreadful what little things lead people to misunderstand each other. – LM Montgomery

Sometimes, when he’s goofing off with Kitty or hunched over his bio textbook, Lara Jean will go back to that first post, the one from Greg’s party. It’s a stupid thing to do, she knows. He looks so ... bro-y, insincere, his tongue sticking out and his expression very ... well, very Peter Kavinsky, king of the cafeteria crowd, local neighborhood lacrosse jock and dream of every freshman girl.

But then he’ll be laughing with Kitty, getting into arguments with her about who would win in a fight, John Wick or The Bride, then telling her she shouldn’t be watching either of those movies because her dad will kill her ... and then promptly suggesting a Keanu marathon, starting with the John Wick chronicles. And then other days, he’ll be bent over his homework, frowning, knee jiggling - worried, she knows, because if he doesn’t keep his grades up he won’t get to play. And if he doesn’t get to play, recruiters won’t get to see him, and he won’t get into college and -

It’s just really disconcerting, is all - to realize that the first picture was fake, a pretension, in more ways than one.

“Cinematically, both movies were subpar, but from a cultural standpoint – ” Kitty is saying, on the other side of Peter, as she stuffs another handful of popcorn into her mouth.

Peter shrugs, taking a sip of his Coke. “Wouldn’t know. Never saw them.”

“You never saw _Captain Marvel OR Wonder Woman?!_ ” Kitty shrieks.

Peter shrugs again, totally blasé. Lara Jean sinks deeper into her end of the couch, hiding her grin behind her battered copy of _Anne of Green Gables._ “Never got around to it.” Underneath the throw, he pats Lara Jean’s ankle for emphasis – her feet are in his lap.

“Yet you got around to every single male-centric Marvel superhero movie!”

He presses his lips together, to fight the laugh. “Yeah.”

“I bet you even saw those terrible DC movies, too.”

“ . . . I mean, not _all_ of them . . .”

Kitty groans loudly, clapping her hand to her forehead. Lara Jean and Peter burst out laughing.

“I can’t with this monster,” Kitty declares, and pushes off her throw and runs up the stairs in a huff.

“Hey! Hey, kid!” Peter calls, craning his neck to look at her. Kitty stops half-way up. “I’ll take you to see the new one that’s coming out. _1984_ , right?”

Kitty brightens and Lara Jean bites her lip against her pleased smile. _Of course he’d already know the title._ “’Night, everybody,” Kitty says, and practically skips up the stairs.

“Peace!” Peter calls, flopping his head down on the back couch cushions. Lara Jean looks at the long line of his neck and looks away abruptly, flushing.

_What is wrong with me._

She stares at the page in her book, re-reading the same line over and over. In her periphery, she sees Peter turn towards her – feels his hand on her ankle still, where he’d been rubbing. Hears him take a breath in, like he’s going to say . . . something – something like . . .

_Snicker doodles._

“I’m gonna bake,” she declares, standing up. The plaid throw falls to the ground and she practically runs to the kitchen, tossing the book haphazardly onto the island.

“Uh – um, okay . . .”

She flies around the island, gathering all the supplies. Except she can’t seem to find cream of tartar. Rummaging frantically around in the pantry, she finally finds it behind the olive oil, then shuts the cabinet door – only to find Peter standing right there.

Lara Jean yelps in surprise.

“Sorry,” he laughs, sheepish. “You should see your face.” He jerks his head over to the front door. “I’m gonna head home.”

“Okay!” she chirps, clutching the cream of tartar jar to her chest like it’s a safety vest. Which, in a way . . .

Peter rocks back on his heels a bit, and then says, “So, my mom – she wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow.”

Lara Jean blinks up at him, surprised. She hadn’t realized his mom knew anything about her. Because. You know. Contract. Fake dating. Not – not _real_ dating. Not telling your parents that you’re dating because it’s fake dating. Dad thinking they’re _actually_ dating is bad enough.

“It’s last minute, I know, so if you’re busy – ” he says, in a rush.

“Um, no, I just – ” she fumbles, at a loss. She wants to say that this is a bad idea. That this is a step towards something that’s a little less uncertain, a little less indefinable, like all the steps they’ve _been_ taking, towards this – this thing. This something.

Something that could get her hurt.

“It’s just, she’s been bugging me for a while about it –“ _A while?_ “ – and I figured, you know, if I don’t keep up the act she’s gonna – ”

Relief rushes her through her. At least she tells herself that’s relief. “The act. Right, right, the act,” Lara Jean says quickly. She turns back to the island, concentrates on lining up all the ingredients in a neat, orderly fashion. She doesn’t look back at him, letting her hair fall around her face, a protective veil. _The act._ He’s absolutely right. “Uh, sure. Sure, I’ll go.”

There’s a moment, where it’s quiet – where her fingers still amongst the spice jars. But it’s a just a pause, she tells herself, because Peter says, brightly, “Great. Pick you up at 6,” and leaves without a further word.

She listens to him start up the Jeep, a churn that’s become familiar to her, as she surveys the baking pans. Only two.

Four. She’s going to need four trays.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super old one I had worked on when the second movie came out that I could never really finish. It is largely unpolished and unedited. I'm going to try and get the other bits out eventually. Thanks for reading! <3


	2. Bleachers

“So, I know it’s your turn, but I’m telling you, you really need to see -”

“Oh, um, I can’t. Not tonight.” Lara Jean closes her locker door, and threads her arms through her backpack straps.

Peter stops digging through his own backpack, his notebook forgotten.

“Again?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs and looks down at her sneakers. “Kitty - she’s uh, having trouble with math lately, and ...” She stops, uncomfortable.

Peter frowns. She’d bailed last night, to help with Kitty’s social studies project. And he’s sure she was telling the truth but he also knows she’d stayed up late last night to bake. (Not that he was stalking her Instagram or anything. He was just checking. He just happened to check, is the thing.) It’s just weird how all of a sudden she doesn’t want to hang out anymore.

“They sure do ride those sixth graders, huh,” he says, lamely.

“Yeah.” She nods down the crowded hall. “See you later.”

“Wouldn’t wanna miss taco Tuesday,” he says, holding out his fist for a bump. "Although, why they still call it that when it's a Friday ..."

She almost seems to flinch, and doesn’t oblige. “Oh um. Yeah. I promised Chris we’d hang out at lunch. Subway date.”

What. The. _Hell_.

But the bell rings before he can even splutter out a response. She gives him a quick wave and practically runs to her next class. Peter adjusts his backpack and heads to History, a general sense of unease starting to settle between his shoulders. He barely takes any notes in class, just focused on doodling in the margins.

He’d been disappointed when she didn’t want to do movie night last night. But hey, she had a valid excuse. If Kitty needed help she needed help.

But then he’d been bored and ... lonely ... and he’d pulled up Instagram and he’d somehow ended up on Covey’s page, wondering why the hell she never posted about them - about him. He should’ve made it a stipulation in the contract. For authenticity’s sake. _Thou shalt post about each other’s fake significant other._ It would’ve made it easier to ... figure things out.

Except it’s too late and ever since dinner with Mom she’s been acting _weird,_ like more so than usual, and she doesn’t post about them and instead she’ll post about midnight pensive baking sessions over snicker doodles, leaving him feeling stupid and useless and wondering if she’s been up thinking about the same thing _he’s_ been thinking about -

The bell rings. Peter snaps out of it and starts packing his stuff up, noting wryly he’ll need to borrow someone else’s notes for today. Well - maybe he’ll ask Covey. She’s got Mrs. Fernandez too, just a different period. He’ll go to her place this weekend and maybe then he’ll finally summon up the balls to ask her what the hell is going on, instead of sending her stupid pieces of scrap paper that he knows she doesn’t read.

(He knows what the hell is going on.)

“Hey.” He turns around on his way to the cafeteria. Gen is standing there, arms crossed and lip curled.

He eyes her, cautious. He can’t actually remember the last time they talked. “What’s up?”

She nods over to the exit doors. “Can we talk? Meet me at the bleachers?”

Peter looks around. He can’t see Lara Jean anywhere. And she did say she was gonna eat with Chris.

“Whatever, okay.” Might as well get this over with. They should hash things out, anyway. She keeps calling, and he keeps dodging her calls, and the thing is – the thing is, he’s begun to realize he’s just fine without her. Better than fine.

That’s what he’ll do. He’ll let Gen down easy. Let her know they can still be friends, of course, because he’s not a dick. She’ll go off with her college boyfriend, what’s-his-face, and he’ll . . .

And he’ll go find Covey and just . . . make things clearer.

Clear.

-tbc-


	3. Couch

_Clink._

_Clink._

_Clink. Clink. Clinkclink._

Lara Jean looks up from her bed and at her window. Something – a pebble? – hits the windowpane. _Huh?_ She puts down her book on her side table and walks over, throwing it open and poking her head out.

“LAAAAAAAARGIIIEEEEEEE!”

“Greg?” she says, confused. He, Trevor, and Peter are standing on her front lawn – Peter’s Jeep is idling on the street. “Uh, hi?”

“We’re kidnapping you!” Greg declares. “Come on out.”

“Uh – no? And uh – ” She stops and glances at Peter, who’s got his hands jammed in the pockets of his hoodie and is looking at anywhere but her. “Um, why, exactly?” Their fight this morning at school has made things awkward – she didn’t even ask him at the end of the day to drive her Kitty and back home.

“Uh, because we want to hang out,” Greg says, as if he’s talking to a very dumb child. He slaps the back of his hand against Trevor’s chest and gestures to the porch roof. “Come on. Let’s get her.”

“Are you crazy?!” Lara Jean hisses, as they start to climb up. “My dad’ll hear!”

“He’s home?” Trevor asks, pausing in his ascent. Behind him, Greg snaps, “Come on, man, move it!” Trevor kicks and Greg yells, “OW! Motherfu – ”

“Stop, just stop, okay? I’ll come down myself.” She closes the window, turns off the light and grabs her boots and backpack. She closes her door behind her and pads in her socked feet down the hall.

Kitty opens her door. “Can I come too?” she stage whispers.

Lara Jean glares. “Are you _crazy?_ ”

Kitty makes big eyes towards Dad’s closed door.

Lara Jean sighs, reaches into her backpack, and slaps ten dollars into Kitty’s waiting palm.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Kitty says, prim, and closes her door.

Fifteen minutes later, they’re at Trevor’s with a bunch of other people – Trevor’s parents are away for the weekend. It’s not too big of a party – at least, not the kind that Greg likes to throw – so Lara Jean feels a little bit more relaxed. She does keep her distance from Peter, though – it isn’t too hard, since he’s weirdly not acting too sociable himself, choosing to hang out in the den with some other guys and play Xbox. She spends some time chatting with Pammy and Keisha, nursing a Solo cup full of bad beer, before she checks her phone and realizes the time.

“I gotta go,” she says to Pammy. She brings up Uber on her phone.

“Is Peter’s car broken?” Pammy asks.

“Uh – no – why?”

“Well, he can’t drive you?”

Oh. Right. That’s what (fake) boyfriends do. “Must be tired,” Lara Jean says, trying to laugh it off. She stands up, her vision swimming for a brief moment – the beer must’ve affected her a bit – and goes searching for him.

Practically, she can just pretend she went looking for him, and get an Uber and go home alone. But . . . it would be rude, right? To not at least let him know she’s going. Practically, she could just text him to tell him that. But . . .

She opens the door to the den. The boys are gone, but Peter’s stretched out on that hideous flowered couch, texting. Lara Jean almost ducks away – something rushes at her, like she’s bracing for impact, the sting – _he’s texting Gen_ – but then Peter looks up. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She swallows, puts on a brave face. “I gotta go.”

“Right.”

He starts to get up, and alarmed, she says immediately, “Oh, um, I’ll just get an Uber. It’s okay. Just thought I’d let you know.”

For some reason, Peter’s face darkens, and this time his tired, “Right,” sounds a lot more sarcastic. A lot more mean. He flops down on the couch again, stretching his legs out.

Frustrated, Lara Jean says, “What is wr - ?” But then stops when he looks up again, brow furrowed, as if in challenge. She quickly amends, “Who’re you texting?”

“Uh, none of your business,” he says.

Lara Jean sucks on the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, I guess not,” she admits, her voice hollow. Because it isn’t. It really, really isn’t. She starts to leave.

“Hey, Covey. Wait – uh.” She stops, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Peter shrugs, and puts away his phone. “It was Chris. I was just texting Chris.”

Confused, Lara Jean sits down next to him, one leg folded underneath her, her other foot still on the floor. Because he’s laid down, he has to shift slightly, pillowing his head with his hand, elbow jutting out. She nudges his hip with her own. “You two hate each other.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Peter says, mildly, but with a humorous glint in his eye and she can’t help but smile. But then he smiles back, the soft kind smile, exactly like the one he gave her when he dropped her off at her house after dinner with his mom, and she thinks –

_Shit._

She looks down at her knee, playing with the rips in the denim. It’s just the beer. It’s making her see things that aren’t there. He just wants Chris to go to the ski trip, so she can go to the ski trip. So she can be there and let him flaunt her in front of Gen, the icing on the proverbial cupcake, one last dig before victory. And then they’ll get back together, and Josh and she are cool with each other now, and everything will be back to normal, like it all never happened.

“Hey.” Now it’s Peter’s turn to nudge her with his hip. “What’s up?”

She shrugs, chews on her thumbnail. “Nothing. Just tired, I guess.”

“Yeah? C’mere.” He pulls at her wrist, moves over on the couch.

“Uh – what are you – ”

“Will you just – ”

“I _am_ you’re just abnormally tall!”

“ _You’re_ just abnormally little!”

It takes some maneuvering, and her face is literally on fire, all the way down to her collarbone, and she knows this is a very bad, not at all good idea, so she keeps her head against his chest and ignores the way she can feel his arm around her, his thumb rubbing lightly just on her ribcage. The sounds of the party seem very far away all of a sudden.

After a while, Peter clears his throat – she feels it deep and low in his chest. “So – why don’t you wanna go to the ski trip?”

Lara Jean lets her eyes flutter closed. She can’t tell him the truth. There’s no way she can say, _Because I think I don’t want this to be pretend, anymore. Because I don’t want to watch you leave._

So she shrugs – it accidentally makes her shift even closer to him, and he tightens his grip around her – and she says, “Can’t ski.” Which, true. She can’t. And what is he going to do? Stay with her in the lodge the entire time while his crew laughs it up on the slopes? Eat popcorn and watch the snow fall by the fire? It sounds lovely – it sounds perfect to her, perfectly lovely – but for someone like Peter . . .

Peter makes a _chh_ sound against his teeth. “That’s easy, I’ll teach you. I’m great at it.”

She snorts, disbelieving.

“No, it’ll be cool,” he insists. “We’ll take it nice and easy. The bunny slope.” She laughs out right. “You’ll be ready to hit the black diamond by the end of the day. Guaranteed. And I know it’s hotel food, but the lodge makes a great hot chocolate. Not the powdered shit.”

She smiles into his chest, eyes still closed. That all sounds perfectly lovely, too. “I always like hot chocolate.”

“Extra marshmallows?”

She nods, sleepily.

“So . . . whaddaya say?”

Even in her tiredness, she’s still wary. Because _why_ is he pressing this, when Gen as good as asked him to come back? Why have all this fun, learn how to ski, drink hot chocolate, hang out all day together, if not to rub it further in her face? “I already said. I’ll go if Chris goes.”

Peter seems to sigh underneath her, but she’s so sleepy now she doesn’t know if it’s out of frustration or something else. She waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t, and there a few long beats where she just starts to teeter towards sleep.

“You’re very comfy,” she mumbles, because he is – because she likes the steadiness of his breathing, underneath her cheek – the way she feels warm all over. Not in the nervous (scared) way she sometimes can get around him, especially lately. But the nice, floaty way. The comfortable way, the way that makes her think, so muddled and quiet she doesn’t even know she’s thinking it, _Ah, that’s the missing piece._

She feels the puff of soft laughter breeze through her hair. “Thanks. You are too.” And then, laughingly, “Like a teddy bear.”

She snorts, more than half asleep now. “Little an’ squishy, righ’?” she mumbles, right before she slips away, right before she can hear him say, against her forehead, “Nah. Little and cute.”

*

It’s Trevor who wakes them up, with a thrown sofa pillow against their faces and a booming, “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!” More than slightly panicked at the time, she doesn’t have the mindset to be mortified about letting her guard down. Peter drops her off and she barely manages a quick, “Thanks, see you later!” before fleeing, as quietly as she can, back into the house.

Dad is none the wiser. But the light is still on in Kitty’s room, and she slips another ten dollar bill underneath the door.

She doesn’t check her phone until she’s in bed. She’s got one message, a group text from Trevor, to her and Peter – it’s a shot of them sleeping together on the couch. Her heart flutters into her throat, and her cheeks rush with heat, and she doesn’t know what to say to Trevor’s “Awww, how preciousssss” tease, because what is there to say?

Peter hasn’t replied either.

Then comes another text – _Lucky I didn’t catch your boner Kavinsky_

And Peter’s response is an immediate – _Shut the fuck up man_

Lara Jean laughs, and buries her face in her free hand, this time out of sheer embarrassment. _You are so gross Pike_ she texts, and adds, _Good night boys_.

Then she shuts off her phone, and her light, and snuggles deep under the covers.

A minute later, she sits up, turns her phone on again, and looks at the picture. Peter liked her good night text, but that’s it. After a long beat, she taps the picture and saves it to her phone.

It may have been a moment that will be forgotten next weekend when he climbs aboard that bus, without her, and to the ski slopes and Gen. And she’ll regret it, and she’ll feel so stupid, and – and it’ll suck. But . . . at least . . . at least it’s something. Something that wasn’t pretend.

At least for her.

Then she turns off her phone, and takes her other pillow – hugs it to her chest with a one-armed grip, like she’s sleeping on top of it, and falls asleep, remembering.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because there must be 129038129038 iterations of how the lock screen photo came to be ...


	4. The Last Note

~~Can we talk?~~

Can we talk about things ~~for real?~~

~~I really like you.~~

~~I~~

Frustrated, Peter balls up the last scrap of paper and throws it against the window. It bounces off the pane, then off his desk, and onto the floor.

_Pointless._ It’s not like she reads them. Well, she sometimes does – like the one where he wanted to show his car off to Kitty’s friends. But if he’s being honest, it’s because he tells her to read those ones, the ones that are completely innocent. Not the ones where it feels like if she reads them – looks up at him with that look in her eyes, the one where she can really _see_ shit and call him out on it – he might actually explode.

He just doesn’t get her sometimes. Like, he damn well asked her, straight up, to go to the ski trip with him. For real. No more of this fake dating, pretend bullshit. But she still said no – and she still fell asleep on him – and now it’s Monday and he’s about to pick her and Kitty up – and she _still_ hasn’t agreed to the ski trip, and it’s this Saturday, and Chris is _still_ ignoring him – and she keeps saying she won’t go unless Chris does, which he has no idea why, because _obviously_ Chris never goes to these things.

It just sucks that for someone he has begun to realize gets him – gets him, in a way that no one else has been able to, instantly, instinctively – she just . . . doesn’t get _this._ Shouldn’t she? Like – he knows she’s scared. She good as well admitted that, months ago. But . . . aren’t some risks worth it?

Tapping his pen against his notebook, it’s like a literal light bulb went over his head. He quickly scrawls –

_Aren’t some risks worth it?_

Brilliant. Fantastic. Job well done.

. . .

. . . It sounds like a freaking fortune cookie.

Groaning, he tears the sheet out, and knocks his forehead against his desk.

“Peter! Get a move on!” Mom calls from downstairs.

Sighing, he stuffs his notebook into his backpack and heads down the stairs. And so he goes and picks up Lara Jean and Kitty, and laughs at Kitty’s chattering and tries to play it cool (he thinks he succeeds) with Lara Jean, even though she waltzes into his Jeep with one of those long skirts – the velvet kind – with a slit up the side that makes him think about things he really should _not_ be thinking about someone who is definitely not his real girlfriend. The kind of thoughts he was having when they drifted off to sleep together.

He drops Kitty off first, and the ride descends into silence for the short drive over to the high school lot. At the stoplight, he glances over and sees Lara Jean frowning at her phone, her mouth scrunched to the side in contemplation. Then she crosses her legs, the dark purple velvet falling away to reveal her combat boots and then his eyes follow the line of her leg up to her smooth thigh and thank god the car behind him honks and he has to concentrate on the road again.

“Uh, what’s wrong?” he says, as he pulls into the high school parking lot.

Lara Jean slides her phone into her jacket pocket, shrugging. “Nothing, it was just Chris.”

Probably sounding the alarm. He’d been texting her all weekend since the party.

As soon as he shifts the car into park, Lara Jean is out like a bat out of hell, jogging up the steps to the front entrance of the high school. Peter grabs his backpack from the trunk, but before he shuts the door, he glances over his shoulder at her. She’s waiting at the top, arms crossed against the chill, looking around. Then her face breaks into a wide grin, dimples deepening in her cheeks happily, and his chest seems to bottom out, because – _oh, fuck._ She’s waving at someone behind him, and if it’s Sanderson he thinks he might turn around and shove his fist into his fa –

“Hey, PK,” Lucas says, clapping his shoulder as he passes.

“Hey, man,” Peter says, relieved, and Lucas trots up the stairs and starts talking to Lara Jean.

Good. Okay, good.

He pulls out his notebook, finds his pen. Writes the note down as quick as he can, before he can chicken out. Then he locks up the Jeep and heads up to the entrance.

She’s not wearing jeans, so he can’t do the back pocket thing – which, honestly, is probably a good idea right now, all things considered – so he just grabs her hand as they walk into the cafeteria to wait for the start of homeroom, talking with Lucas as if nothing’s amiss. But when Lucas goes to sit with some of his friends, Peter still twirls her around.

And even though things have been weird between them, Lara Jean laughs up at him when she collides with his chest. And there – there it is, again, that unguarded twinkle in her eyes, the way the very tops of her cheeks flush a happy pink, that always makes him think – _yeah, all right._

But this time, he realizes, _No. It’s everyday._

“What?” she asks, her smile fading a bit in confusion.

He shakes his head, to clear it. “Madame,” he says, with a fake French accent, and slips the note into her jacket pocket.

She rolls her eyes at him, and pats her pocket on the outside. But she doesn’t take it out. She never does.

The bell rings, and she says, pushing a few strands of hair that escaped from her bun out of her face, “Later.”

“Yeah.” They have different homerooms, in the opposite direction of school. He walks backwards towards the other exit, thumbs looped into his backpack straps. Before she turns, he says, jerking his chin in her direction, “You should read that one.”

The crowd of students has gotten loud. Maybe she hears it. But she gives him a dutiful salute, and gets swept up in the current of bodies heading away.

He shakes his head, and turns, searching for a floppy black hat and a surly glare. Maybe he is chicken shit – for not pressing it, for not saying it out loud. Maybe it is just too risky – and not just for her. But whatever. He just has to find Chris and convince her to come on the trip. He’ll take care of the rest – he’s already thinking of what to say to Kitty.

He doesn’t find Chris, but he finds the next best thing. And Trevor owes him, especially after pulling that text stunt with him and LJ. It’s probably overkill, considering Trev and Chris haven’t really talked since they were all in middle school, but he’s getting a shade desperate here. Just a shade.

“Hey! Pike!” He swats his hand against the back of Trevor’s head, grabbing his baseball cap as it flies off, and before Trevor can react, swings his arm around his shoulders as they head to homeroom.

“What the hell – ” Trevor says, snatching at his hat, but Peter yanks it away.

Peter just grins. “You owe me a favor.”

-tbc-


	5. Trip Prep

It takes her a few days after her talk with Dad and Chris to summon up the courage. Lara Jean tells herself it’s not because she’s _avoiding_ things, because it’s not. She just wants to be really sure she actually wants to go. Really, really sure.

Because she keeps looking at _that_ picture, that’s now her lock screen – looking for it, trying to see it. The it that made Dad he’s happy for her. The it that made Chris say she’s never seen her so happy. And yes, she supposes she is – it’s in the way her arm’s around him, the way she looks deeply asleep. The way she fell asleep, surrounded by warmth and the faint, earthy smell of Peter’s bodywash, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat underneath her cheek.

But that’s _her,_ and not _him,_ and what if it all really was pretend, fake stuff that washed over the real stuff that’s making her confused and thinking this way? It could’ve all been careless flirting, for him.

(And what if it wasn’t? What if it was real. Is real. What if that’s more scary and frightening and he’s starting to walk right in, making himself right at home in her heart, what if he – what if he walks right out –)

Anyway. Yeah. This is where it’s at, and now she has to tell him, because it’s Thursday, the trip is on Saturday, she’s avoided it long enough – _not avoided_ , she just hasn’t had the time to tell him in between all the drives to and from school and shared classes together and whatnot, _really_ –

She takes a deep breath, and pushes open the door to antique store.

Every time Lara Jean walks into Mrs. Kavinsky’s shop, she wants to break out in a little dance – the spinning, spirally kind, like in the opening sequence to _The Sound of Music._ There’s always something new to look at, something interesting and cool and quirky from a long-ago time. It could be a dinged-up chaise lounge, or a heavy antique armoire – or faded black and white postcards from somewhere far away. She hasn’t been here in a few weeks, so there’s a lot of new things in the display case underneath the register. Velvet chokers with cameos, fishnet lace gloves with delicate beading . . .

And a beautiful silver locket, swirling with love-heart patterns.

_Wow._

Peter bumps his hip into hers. Knocked off balance, Lara Jean glares up at him. “Do you have to be so sneaky?” she grumbles, adjusting her backpack.

“Sorry,” he laughs, sounding not sorry at all. “What’s up?”

She hesitates, before leaning both of her arms on top of the counter, fingers laced. Might as well get this over with. “So, yeah, uh – Chris said yes.” She pauses. “So, she’s, uh, going. To the ski trip.” She keeps her eyes focused on the jewelry in the case, glistening below her arms.

Peter mirrors her stance on top of the display case. “So you’re going?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” She swallows. Something sounds really loud in her ears – the blood rush, thudding erratically.

“ . . . Cool.” His voice is low, and quiet – pleased, perhaps? He pauses, and then he unclasps his hands and his fingers seem to twitch towards hers on top of the counter top, like he’s reaching for her ( _whoa, what_ ) and then he says, “So, do you want me to pick you up – ?”

Alarmed, she steps off and away from the display case. His hands stay where they are. “Uh, no, no that’s – ” She takes a deep breath, trying to gather herself. “My dad – he wants to drive me, say goodbye.” She gestures to the door, lamely and lies, “I gotta get Kitty.”

“Hold on, my shift’s over in ten – ”

“I’m late,” she says, heading to the door. “I’ll see ya.”

The cool breeze hits her square in the face, stinging her eyes and making her red cheeks feel even hotter. She grabs the bus back home and picks at her nail polish. Her heart is still beating frantically.

What the hell did she just agree to. She had a moment of pure insanity, pure stupidity. She was just being silly, imagining things, back there. There’s no way he feels the same way that she’s only just beginning to realize she feels about him. Now she’s stuck going on this stupid trip, sitting on that stupid bus and in that stupid lodge, all to watch him go off with Gen, go and walk right out . . .

After she gets off the bus and approaches the house, she stuffs her hands into her jacket pockets, her fingers balling over her set of house keys – and something else. She pulls out the keys, and a square piece of notebook paper with her name on it. One of Peter’s notes. Brow furrowed, she unlocks the front door and promptly trips over Kitty’s shoes.

“Kitty!” she yells.

Kitty, sprawled lazily on the couch, doesn’t even look up from the tv. “Sorry,” she says, flatly.

Not in the mood to get into a fight with her little sister, Lara Jean tosses the keys into the dish on the console table, toes off her sneakers, and hangs up her jacket. She considers the note for a moment, wondering. She can’t remember if this was the one he said to read.

“What’s that?” Kitty asks, munching on her chips.

That settles the question. “Nothing,” Lara Jean says, and walks up the stairs and tosses the note into her wastebasket without a second glance. She looks over the wreck of her room, at all the clothes that are decidedly _not_ ski-trip appropriate, and sighs. “Kitty,” she calls, as she thunders down the stairs. “I’m gonna make some snickerdoodles. Want any?”

*

_What aisle is it in?_

_Where whats in?_

_The yogurt smoothies_

_Refrigerated duh!_

_But wheres the refrigerated aisle?_

_Where there r refrigerators!_

_Do you want ten bucks or not_

_Do you want your Yakult or not_

_Doesn’t matter because I found it_

_Great can I go back to watching tv?_

_Yes remember don’t tell your sister tx kid_

_I’m raising it to 20_

_Fine u jerk_

_. . ._

_Kitty?_

_What_

_Do u know where those pocky sticks r?_

_-tbc-_


	6. Ski Trip

“Trouble in paradise?”

Peter has to give her credit – it Gen just slightly over an hour into the drive to mention anything. He very deliberately ignores her curious look. Instead, he sinks lower into his seat and sticks his earbuds in and scrolls through Hulu, pretending to read the summaries.

Gen laughs, high and loud. She turns around, sitting cross-legged, resting her back against the back of the seat in front of her. “Oh, Peter. _So_ sad. Come on. You can tell me what’s up.”

“What? LJ?” Peter shrugs, feigning indifference. “Nothing. She just wanted to hang out with Chris. See, Gen, just because we’re a couple, doesn’t mean we can’t exist as separate people.” He winks at her. “LJ’s cool that way.”

Gen flushes, pissed at the dig, and a few months ago he would’ve reveled in the knowledge that he got to her, thrilled at the idea of that familiar push and pull that they’ve always had, the need to one-up each other.

But now – it just feels empty, meaningless.

“Sorry,” he says, looking away, out the window. Behind him, someone laughs – and then a responding giggle, bright and happy, and he shifts and peers through the thin sliver of space between the seats.

Lara Jean, giggling with Chris over something on LJ’s phone.

A week ago, if they were in class or in the cafeteria, he would’ve quickly shot her a text, like – _Stop drooling over me it’s embarrassing –_ and she would’ve texted a puking emoji in reply. But now he’s wondering if she’s _actually_ texting someone else. Like that punk Bon Iver wannabe –

Because – because that’s got to be it, right? She was talking to him in the hall. She must still –

“Hey.” Gen jostles his knee with her own. He jerks upright, surprised at being caught out. She eyes him appraisingly, arms crossed. “I meant what I said. You know. From before – that we could still be friends. You can tell me what’s up.”

Peter crosses his own arms and looks at her. He can tell – she’s being sincere. But he’d stupid to think that part of her concern isn’t related to this _thing_ she has against Lara Jean. It’s so weird – those two used to be tight as hell, and then, sometime in middle school, poof! Suddenly they didn’t hang out anymore. He would’ve put it down to typical growing pains – people drifting apart – but it happened too quickly for that. And, he knows Gen can be snide and mean sometimes, but it’s like she reserves a special kind of meanness to Lara Jean.

So, that was kind of the reason why he’d thought of this stupid scheme in the first place. At the time, he thought it would get under Gen’s skin even more. Which . . . okay, it was a shitty thing to do, but he figures he’s _more_ than paid for it considering how absolutely screwed up things have gotten between him and Covey. She won’t even freaking sit next to him on the bus. _After_ he asked her to come with him on the trip! Like, _what the ever living fuck –_

“We just had a fight,” he says. Which, he supposes, isn’t far from the truth.

Gen bites the inside of her cheek. “Sorry,” she says, and sighs. “Know the feeling.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. “What? You and what’s-his-face officially over?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I mean – that was over, like, a _while_ ago,” she says. She looks down at her hands. “I didn’t mean that.”

Oh. “Your parents again?” he asks. They’re always fighting. There were a couple of times she’d call him, back when they were still dating, absolutely distraught, and he could hear them screaming at each other in the background. And there was one time that things got super awkward when they both walked in on them on a fight and he’d had to get Gen out of there before all three of them started in on each other.

“Yeah.” She swallows, hard. “He – uh – started cheating again. They say they’re going to therapy, but . . .” She shrugs, listless.

“Sorry,” he says. “But, you know – at least they’re trying? My parents didn’t even bother with it.”

“Thanks.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand. He squeezes back, but only briefly, and pulls his hand away – and checks over his shoulder, wondering.

Chris has fallen back asleep, slouched against the window. Lara Jean’s digging through her backpack, searching for something. Her sunglasses slip from her head and onto her nose, and she huffs, pushing it back into her hair – as she does so, she looks up, catching his gaze. Her eyes widen, surprised – and Peter almost calls out to her – but then she quickly ducks her head and goes back to looking through her bag. Even from here, he can see her face flush as pink as her coat.

Smarting and confused, he turns forward in his seat and resists the urge to kick his backpack, where the cooler of Yakult and snacks lie unused and forgotten, underneath the seat before him.

*

He’s drunk. And bored. But mostly drunk.

No. That’s a lie. He’s a little hurt, and pissed, and confused mainly. And drunk.

As he surveys the group of kids crammed into Greg’s room over the edge of his beer can, Peter thinks, sourly, _Worst ski trip ever._ He’d spent the entire bus ride feeling sorry for himself and he’d spent his time on the slopes also feeling even sorrier, and now he’s spending the entire night stuck here in this lame ass party when he could’ve been -

Well. That didn’t happen. Lara Jean made herself loud and freaking clear. She didn’t even bat an eye in the hall, when Gen called out to him. She doesn’t give a shit.

“Yo, Peter!” He looks up to see Trevor, gesturing with a red solo. “Flip cup?”

He considers it for half a second. Getting completely trashed tonight would be a bad idea, and he’s not in the mood, and –

“Nah.” He sets his can down on the night table, and hauls himself up. His head is a bit fuzzy, cotton in between his ears. “I’m just gonna go.”

Trevor makes an exasperated motion, but Peter ignores him and heads out. Before he can reach the door, someone calls his name.

“You really leaving early?” Gen smirks, when he turns around.

“Yeah, think so,” he says.

“Well, you owe me a hot toddy,” she says, arms crossed as she leans into his space.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he doesn’t lean away. “You know, just not feeling it. Took a fall. Think I’m just gonna go to the hot tub.”

Her lashes dip and flutter up. “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

It’s definitely an invite – an invite to an invite. Peter looks at her, contemplating. Her college boyfriend is an ex. He and Lara Jean aren’t even exes. They weren’t even . . . anything, technically. Even though he’d wanted – even though he thought _she_ might have wanted . . .

And if he thinks about it, he got exactly what he wanted when they started all this shit.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He turns away, before he can see the glint of triumph in her eyes, and heads back to his room – flops down on his bed and thinks he might just stay there instead.

But then he sees the bag of snacks he’d packed for the trip, trashed in the waste bin next to the desk, and he thinks, _Fuck it._ There’s no way he’s staying in when Lara Jean’s probably on the phone to Sanderson right now –

Ten minutes later, he’s sliding into the hot water, watching the bubbles swirl around his limbs and thinking about the stupid mess he’s made of things. But maybe it’s better this way, to go back to the way things were – something familiar, something he knows well. Nothing to really think about, muddle him up and twist him around. It’s easier, like this.

And then a clear, sweet voice, like a songbird –

“All alone by yourself out here?”

-tbc-


	7. Goodnights

“Hey. You good?”

Lara Jean nuzzles deeper into Peter’s neck – presses a kiss against the point where his throat meets his shoulder. She does it carefully, because her mouth feels almost tender, as if bruised. She thinks she did it lightly enough, but underneath the burbling blue water, his grip on her waist seems to almost spasm, before tightening, dragging the soaked material of her nightgown taut against her torso for the briefest of moments. And she wonders at it, like – why is _he_ the nervous one – he’s not the one who just leapt off the proverbial edge into quite literally churning waters and into the unknown. Right?

. . .

But that’s the thing about him, she’s beginning to realize – that he’s not that guy in that first Instagram post, coolly collected and devil-may-care – or rather, he _is,_ but he’s also a ton of other different things, things that aren’t so obvious.

“Yes,” she answers, quietly, a soft puff against his neck. “You?”

From her position, she can’t see his face – just his throat, where his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah.” He shifts and kisses her forehead. “Just think we should get out. Someone might see.” Oh. Yikes. Lara Jean sits up a little straighter, and he quickly lifts up his hand, water dripping. “Plus, I’m getting really wrinkled.”

She looks at his palm, practically white, and indeed very wrinkled, and then looks back at him. _He doesn’t care about being pruney_ , she realizes. _He cares about . . ._ And she can’t help the melting, soft smile, so she kisses him, just once.

“Okay,” she giggles, pulling away, and he hauls himself out of the tub, sloshing water everywhere, without using the seat – which, okay, _show off_. But he pulls on his robe and turns around and offers her his hand, and she’s able to step on the seat and over the edge of the hot tub and onto the ground almost gracefully. “Oh it’s _freezing_!” she exclaims, rubbing her arms, and when she looks up she sees that Peter’s staring – and then she looks down, and she sees why – her nightgown is clinging to her, to every part of her body, the cotton sopping wet and dark, and she might as well be naked, even her breasts are –

She’s so shocked, not quite mentally freaking out yet, that she almost doesn’t feel the weight of the towel coming down over her shoulders until she sees Peter’s hands, rubbing the thick terry cloth against her upper arms. She swallows, flushing hard, and glances up at him through her lashes.

“Not that I don’t like the view,” he says, softly, “but uh – you looked a little cold.”

A rush of gratitude goes through her, so deeply she can only bite her bottom lip for a second, trying to think of something to say, anything. But all she can do is close her eyes and lean up towards him, and whisper, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t reply, just kisses her eyelid – and then the other, the gentlest of touches. “Come on,” he says, when she finally opens her eyes. He picks up her coat. “Let’s get you dried up.”

*

Lara Jean sets Peter’s extra towel on the hearth of the main hall fireplace, edging as close to the gas fire as possible before folding her legs underneath her and sitting down. It’s practically empty, but there are some people – other guests, nobody from school – milling about, headed either to the dining areas or their rooms, so she doesn’t take the other towel off her shoulders. The fire feels good, though – she tries to wring the edges of her nightgown out, in an attempt to get dry.

“Hey.” Lara Jean looks up, to see Peter with two mugs of hot chocolate. He takes a seat next to her, and hands her one.

“Extra marshmallows,” she muses, smiling at her mug.

“Thought you were half asleep,” he says, arching a brow at her, as he takes a sip.

“I was,” she says. “But I remember.” She blows on the steaming mug, then takes a sip. “Oh wow. This _is_ good.”

“Told ya,” he snickers. “Now, just think – if you only sat next to me on the bus, you, at this very moment, would be an expert skier.”

“Oh, really?” she says, grinning.

“Swear to god. They’d have to call you Lara Jean Vonn-Covey.”

It’s such a corny joke, but they both burst out laughing, and she ends up spilling some very hot hot chocolate over her fingers. As she licks some of it off, she says, “I have to make a cupcake recipe out of this. Hot chocolate cupcakes. Marshmallow topping.” She frowns, puzzling over the recipe over in her head. “I’d have to get mini marshmallows. Maybe put them on the last ten minutes of baking since they’d burn – ”

“Nah, stick with the salted caramel. Those are awesome.”

“Yeah, but those are easy,” she says.

“So? I like them.”

She’d noticed. Every time she’s made them, half the tray disappears before Kitty or Dad can attack. She thinks she has enough supplies for another batch. She clears her throat, a little nervous, as she looks at the bobbing marshmallows in her mug. Which is kind of ridiculous, considering how _not_ nervous she was just a few minutes ago, waltzing into a hot tub without a swimsuit on. “Um, do you want to come over? I-I mean after the trip. I can make you some.”

It suddenly occurs to her he might not want to come. She’s heard some things about those wild after-parties – it is, after all, the start of winter break. Actually, now that she thinks about it, she’s heard some things about _him_ and those wild after-parties, and maybe he doesn’t want to come over and bake freaking salted caramel cupcakes when he could be drunkenly jumping off roofs into outdoor pools in the middle of winter - 

“Yeah, but you have to promise to make extra,” he says, interrupting her thought-spiral. At her arched look, he says, quickly, “So I can take some home to Owen.”

“Owen, huh?” she giggles.

“Yeah. And you know, midnight snacks – ”

She snorts. “We could do Christmas cookie bonanza.”

“Christmas cookie bonanza?”

She nods. “Yeah. The Song sisters basically make every cookie in existence for Christmas.” Her smile fades. “Except I guess Margot’s not here for it.” She doesn’t mention they usually did it with Josh. She has a feeling maybe she shouldn’t. Peter was super weird about finding her talking to him last week. And Christmas cookie bonanza will be super weird without Margot, and Josh. _Everything's so different now._

He bumps his shoulder with hers. “Well, I’m here,” he boasts. “I bet ya I can make a better Christmas cookie than your sister.”

She smiles, tentative, up at him. She's beginning to see more little things. Like this, his need to comfort her - and how easy it comes to him. It's nice. “Are you sure? I taught her everything I know.”

“And you taught me everything you know, too,” he insists, and she snickers. “It’s on. I’ll rock your socks with a Christmas cookie, you make me some salted caramel cupcakes tomorrow night.”

“Deal.” She sticks out her hand for a shake, which he looks at with a grin. But after he obliges, he keeps holding on, settling their linked fingers on top of his knee. Her heart does a little swirly roller-coaster swoop, and she says, more to distract herself from the sensation of his thumb rubbing against the back of her hand, “What do you guys do for Christmas?”

Peter shrugs. “Just, you know, the usual. My aunt comes over, brings some sides. My mom makes everything.” He looks at a spot on the carpet, his brows pulling inwards suddenly. “I dunno what’s happening this year, though. My dad is supposed to get us.”

Oh. “Did you guys go to his last year?” she asks, taking another sip of her hot chocolate before putting it down on the hearth.

“No, last year we stayed with Mom for Christmas. They trade off. So we went to his for Thanksgiving. But it was – ” He stops, shrugs, sets his mug down next to hers. Shrugs again. “His other kids were still really young, and it was just – he and Gayle – anyway, it was weird. And he hasn’t called in, I dunno, like forever. Probably since that Thanksgiving.” He pauses, then looks at her directly. “I don’t have to go this year. I’m not gonna.” He says it resolutely, almost proudly.

Lara Jean feels her own eyebrows dip. She doesn’t know what to say to that. She can’t imagine not talking to her own father for over a year. She can’t imagine a parent not talking to their kid for such a long time, either. She just knows it doesn’t feel right. But she also knows it’s not her place to say anything about it, so instead, she leans forward and kisses him, gentle, on the side of his mouth. As she starts to pull away, though, he lingers, following . . . and angles his face closer, lips brushing against hers, and there’s really nothing more natural than open her mouth under his, feel the line of his jaw with her fingertips, a silent, sweet comfort. 

But when she pulls away, to her embarrassment, she yawns in his face. Peter cracks up. “Am I that boring? Wow.”

“No, I’m just – ” She yawns again, looks at the clock on the wood mantelpiece. “Oh my god.”

“What, you gonna turn into a pumpkin?” He stands up, holds out her coat for her. Lara Jean drops the towel, glad to see she’s mostly dried off, and slips into the sleeves. “Let’s get you to bed, Cinderella.”

*

He’s just about to drift off to sleep when his phone buzzes. Thinking it might be Lara Jean with one last goodnight, he reaches for the phone and rolls over in bed, grinning.

_U r a motherfucking piece of shit._

Oh, fuck.

Peter sits up, drags his hand down his face – scrolls through the twenty or so angry, furious text messages that he hadn’t bothered even checking until now . . . reads the first one, sent hours ago.

_Be down in ten._ It was followed by a winky emoji.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pulls on a T-shirt. Trevor isn’t even back yet, so he doesn’t bother being quiet. Then he walks out of his room, and heads towards Gen’s.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by the fact that I watched the movie way too many times and saw that they are obviously very dry when they say goodnight after the hot tub!


	8. Second Best

It’s simple, really. She’ll just send a couple of angry texts. And she’ll just wait. He’ll come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. She won’t even make him beg too long or hard. He’s a guy, and guy’s do stupid, dumbass things all the time. She’ll forgive him.

Except a couple of angry texts turn to a lot of angry texts, and there’s no knock on her door, and the bottle of vodka she’d brought down to the hot tub is now getting emptier and emptier, as she keeps replaying the video that she took, to the point where she’s almost at sloppy drunk levels of angry.

Okay, maybe she’s already there.

Well, definitely. Because by the time there is a knock at her door, instead of blowing up at Peter, with righteous fury and cutting words, all Gen does is burst into tears.

“Okay, okay, okay. Look, come on. Come on . . . how much did you have to drink?! You can’t keep _doing_ this, come on – ”

Gen sniffles, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, as Peter pulls away. “No’ much,” she hiccoughs, as Peter looks at the almost empty bottle of vodka she’s still clutching, aghast.

“ _Gen._ ” He moves to hug her again, but she can’t stand that tone – exasperated, frustrated. Tired. And suddenly she’s angry again, so angry she could claw his eyes out, because –

“How could you do that to me?!” she yells. “With her? With her – of all people?!”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “She’s – she’s my girlfriend, Gen.”

“No, you told me to come down – you _said_ so – ”

“Gen – I didn’t think you’d – I didn’t – ” She glares at him, daring him to deny it anymore. Peter spreads his hands out, frustrated – sighs. “I’m sorry. We . . . we had a fight. W-we made up.” She can feel her face crumple, the hot bitterness in the back of her throat start flaring again, and _goddammit_ she won’t cry over this piece of shit, over him, over them (again), _but she can’t fucking help it_ – “Gen, I’m sorry – that’s on me – but – ”

“Did you have sex with her?” she spits, successfully swallowing the fresh bout of tears. “Did you? In the hot tub?”

“No. No.” Peter shakes his head. “Lara Jean – she’s not like that.”

Not like that. Not like that. Not like that . . .

“You mean, she’s not like me,” Gen says, bitterly.

Peter’s eyes widen. “No – that’s not what I meant. I meant – ” Gen scoffs, takes another swig of vodka. Some of it splashes down her t-shirt and she doesn’t even dab at it. “Will you slow down with that, come on – ”

“You’ll see,” she says, slamming the vodka bottle on the tv stand so hard the television rattles. “With LJ, you’ll see that it’s all an act.” Peter, for some reason, pales at her words, and sensing her victory, she goes in hard, for the kill. “That little miss innocent thing she’s got going? It’s bullshit. She’s nothing but a fake, back-stabbing bitch. You’ll see. She’ll break your heart and stomp all over it and leave you in the dust. Like everybody else does.”

He straightens immediately, angry, throat bobbing. She’s too far gone to care. “What is your _damage_ ,” he hisses. “Jesus Christ. You’ve had this – I dunno what it is, this _thing_ against her since middle school. What the hell happened?”

*

“Well, _obviously,_ I’ll forgive you,” Gen said, around a mouthful of toothpaste. “That’s what best friends do.”

Lara Jean undid her pigtails, brushing them out slowly. She didn’t say anything, just kept playing with her hair.

“And besides, did you _see_ how he was looking at me?” Gen said, after swirling out some mouthwash. “It’s all good. All is forgiven! You can’t be blamed for a silly bottle mishap.”

“ . . . Thanks,” Lara Jean said.

Gen narrowed her eyes at her in the mirror. She had been acting like that lately – all weird, squirrelly. Taking a bit longer to reply, when not that long ago, there’d be automatic acquiescence. Lara Jean didn’t seem to notice her noticing though. She just kept brushing her hair, a far-off, dreamy look on her face.

_She’s thinking about Peter._

Which – no. It couldn’t be. She’d spent months, moon-eyed over Johnny McClaren, spending every possible spare moment at the Robertsons’ tree house with their books. Both of them were so nerdy and quiet, the nice kids that their teachers fawned over. So suited for one another, it made perfect sense. There was simply no other way. “I bet you wish it would’ve landed on John,” Gen said, pointedly.

Lara Jean blushed to her roots. “I – I really don’t think – ” She stopped and started again, “I mean, he didn’t even notice the Seahawks jersey I wore yesterday. I dunno.”

“ _Please_ ,” Gen said. “He’s gonna ask you out soon. I can tell. Just think.” She sighed, happily. “When we’re in high school, it’s gonna be me and Peter, and you and John. We’ll go on double-dates and everything.”

“You think?”

“Positive.”

She watched, almost triumphant, at how Lara Jean’s face brightened at the possibility. “He was just soooo cute at the Halloween party,” Lara Jean said, grabbing Gen’s upper arm. “Deviled egg and French toast. It was like, meant to be.”

Both girls giggled.

“You two done?” Mom said, walking into the bathroom. “Come on. Too much talking about boys.”

Gen stole a glance at Lara Jean as they walked down the hall to Gen’s bedroom. She didn’t seem to notice Mom had yet another glass of wine in her hand, or the fact that she slurred her words a little bit. Dad was gone again – another business trip, to Seattle. Or that was what he told them. She’d heard Mom on the phone earlier, sniping at him. Something about his secretary.

It would be better – easier – if her parents were like Lara Jean’s parents – at least, before Mrs. Covey died. But Gen had noticed they never fought. There wasn’t any alcohol in the house, except for the smelly Korean stuff that Mrs. Covey used to use for cooking. And even though she had a dead mother, Lara Jean was lucky. She had her sisters, who adored her – not a cousin who’d begun, seemingly all of a sudden, to snipe and snark. And Lara Jean had her dad. Her dad, who was always around, and loved her.

Gen crawled into her bed, Lara Jean into the trundle. “Good night,” Lara Jean mumbled sleepily.

“’Night,” Gen said, turning off the light. With her other hand, she tugged at her friendship bracelet, worn ragged after months of non-stop wear. It had started to itch. “I think he’s gonna ask me out soon.”

“Peter?” Lara Jean yawned. “Where would even take you?”

“His dad can drive us. Duh! Keep up, Lara Jean!” Gen clicked her tongue in annoyance. “I bet he’s just waiting to be more romantic. John is, too.” In the darkness, she glanced towards the lump of blankets just to her side, wondering. Testing. “He’s pretty cute. John, that is.”

“ . . . W-well, yes,” Lara Jean mused, eventually. She sounded very sleepy. “And John is so nice and sweet. And his stutter is so cute. Especially when he gets nervous and shy . . . ”

Gen smothered a snicker with her hand. She really had nothing to worry about after all.

But then, unprompted, came Lara Jean’s slow, weary voice, just on the edge of a dream, “ . . . But I guess Peter’s got nice eyes. They have golden flecks in them . . . I just _hate_ how he always goes for the last pizza slice . . .”

Gen perked up, lifting her head off the pillow to look at Lara Jean. She hadn’t known that Lara Jean had noticed that detail about Peter, about his eyes. _She_ hadn’t even noticed that detail about Peter. But before she could even ask, she noticed Lara’s chest rising and falling, slowly and steadily underneath the blanket.

There was nothing she else to do, but flop down in bed, and stare up at the ceiling, thinking and fiddling with the itchy friendship bracelet, and wondering. And worrying.

The dance. The dance would be here in a few months. She even had a dress already picked out, sparkly lavender, at the Nordstrom’s in Portland. Mom will take her, maybe even Dad will be around that weekend to take photos.

And Peter will ask her. John will ask Lara Jean. And then, things would fall into place, like it was meant to be.

_Besides. Lara Jean is too nice and mousy. She wouldn’t have the guts to go against me._

_She’s my best friend. Forever . . ._

*

“Nothing happened,” Gen says, shaking her head at him. The room spins with the motion and she’s suddenly very much aware of how drunk she is, on top of the anger. “You did it. You both did.”

“Both did? What? What are you even talking about?” Peter reaches for her shoulder, but she jerks away. “Gen – I used to – we used to be so close. But you’re the one who went and dumped me. I wasn’t going to wait around forever.”

“No, you weren’t,” she slurs, sinking onto the bed. Her head hurts, her heart is thudding so loudly she can barely hear him anymore, or even what she’s saying. “You just went back to your first choice.” She hides her head in her arms, waves him off. “You two. Made me feel like. Lef’overs. _Garbage_ . . .”

“Gen,” Peter sighs. He sounds aghast. Because - of course he is. It would've never occurred to him. Pretty boy, pretty words. Careless, carefree. She feels the bed depress next to her – then his hand in her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry all of this got so fucked. But – but I’ll always be here for you, okay?”

She sighs herself, doesn’t lift her head. “Just go, Peter. Just get out.” She doesn’t register if he actually does. But, hours later, when she wakes up thanks to Emily finally slinking into the room, the wastebasket is next to the bed, and a bottle of water is on the nightstand.

She dresses slowly, squinting in the morning light, and packs everything as if in a daze. When Emily’s out of the shower, she goes in to do her make-up. Inside her bag is a colorful scrunchie, tossed carelessly aside there weeks ago.

She takes it out, frowning as she pulls at the elastic. She’d planned to wear it yesterday, once she and Peter got back together – to remind that little skank her place in the world. It would’ve all been a good laugh.

_Still can be._

After all . . . she has more ammo now, doesn’t she?

“Such a headache,” Emily says, coming back into the bathroom to brush her teeth. “What did you get up to last night?”

Gen looks at her reflection in the mirror – the red-rimmed eyes, the dark circles. She slides the scrunchie onto her wrist, and then starts patting on her undereye concealer with a beauty blender, mouth pinched and jaw set into a determined line.

“Oh . . . I went swimming,” she says, nonchalantly.

-tbc-


	9. Bus Ride

There’s no way he can sleep now, so Peter ends up wandering the halls of the lodge. Somewhere along the way, he thinks about going back up to Lara Jean’s room, just to talk again. But she’d been ready to drop when he’d walked her up, and part of him doesn’t want to ruin the memory of her starry-eyed gaze up at him, dreamy and content, right before she whispered good-night.

And he doesn’t want to tell her what happened, just now. What Gen had said about her.

_You’ll see. She’ll break your heart and stomp all over it and leave you in the dust._

_Like everybody else does._

Her words, sour and bitter, cut at him, and for some reason he can’t get the looming shadow of his father out of his head, and by the time he finally makes it back to his own room, daylight has come and it’s only a few hours until they have to make the long drive back to Greenport.

He’s surprised to see Trevor’s not back yet, having never slept in his bed at all – and he’s about to call text him when the door opens and Pike slinks in, head down, clearly trying to be quiet.

“Where the hell were you?” Peter laughs.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Trevor says, startled. “Nowhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Peter eyes him. He’s looking … squirrely. Normally, Trevor would’ve bragged about where he was. _Interesting_. “Who were you with?”

“Funny, you don’t look like my mom,” Trevor says, flopping into bed, belly-first. He yawns. “I’m gonna catch some Z’s.”

Peter checks his phone. “Bus is leaving in two hours.”

“Great! I’ve got one hour and forty-five minutes.”

He rolls his eyes and heads for the shower. He’ll get it out of Trevor later. But he’s not going to miss the bus. He gets his shower stuff and heads to the bathroom. He wants to grab a seat for him and Lara Jean. He’ll deal with Gen tomorrow – talk to her when she’s sober, make sure she’s doing all right, is cool with everything.

And then they can all move on.

*

Someone’s giggling.

Lara Jean rubs her eye, the afternoon sunlight blinking rapidly, like a strobe, through the treeline and the tinted bus windows. She yawns, and would’ve curled into Peter again, but the giggle happens once more – sharp, stinging – and she hears the derisive, “ _Didn’t think she was the type._ ”

_Me?_

Lara Jean opens her eyes again. Before her eyes can adjust, whoever was talking, a few rows ahead, shuts up and turn. She frowns, thinking – her neck, underneath her pressed white collar, hot and uncomfortable and slightly damp. It had sounded like Alyssa McAllister – she thinks. Maybe?

“Hey, where’d my pillow go?”

Lara Jean turns back to Peter. He yawns, smiling sleepily at her, and her heart does a skip-step. “You really were tired,” she says, amused.

“ _Some_ one kept me up half the night,” he says, nudging his leg against hers.

“Kavinsky!” They both look up as Mark Conway makes his way to their row. Lara Jean resists rolling her eyes as they do that bro-y, handslap/handshake/fingersnap thing. Mark’s not on the lacrosse team, he’s on the football team, and she gets the feeling that Peter can’t stand him, and she also gets the feeling that Mark can’t stand Peter, but they play nice because their circles overlap sometimes and . . . well, she’s not sure why they play nice beyond that, actually. It’s gotta be some sort of weird alpha male of the junior class kind of thing.

Mark takes the empty seat in front of Lara Jean and leans over the back of it. “You guys coming to Steve’s?”

She bites the inside of her cheek, and glances down. Maybe Peter forgot – about coming over – about not going to some party where people streak and get so drunk the cops are called – maybe he doesn’t actually want to do Christmas cookie bonanza and –

“Nah, we’ve got other plans,” Peter says, and she still keeps her gaze down, but this time smiles, so happy she could burst.

“Cool, don’t think I would either if I had someone to go home with,” Mark says. Lara Jean looks up abruptly at his tone. He winks at her and says, “Didn’t know you had it in you, LJ.” He holds his fist out for a bump with Peter, who this time doesn’t oblige.

“Whatever, man,” he says, friendly enough, but his own voice has turned slightly chilly.

Mark just shrugs his shoulders. “Easy man, just saying,” he says, and saunters up the aisle back to his seat.

_. . . What?_

Peter mutters something under his breath. It sounds like, “Douchebag.” She thinks. Maybe. For some reason she can’t explain, her cheeks have started to flush with embarrassment. That thing from earlier, when everybody had clapped when she got onto the bus – Alyssa maybe sorta talking about her – now this . . . what did it all mean . . .?

“Hey.” Peter nudges her. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Lara Jean says, quickly. She’s just imagining things. _I’m not gonna start this again._ She’d patted herself on the back, for making the leap last night to trust herself – to go see him and talk to him. She can’t doubt herself now, right? So instead of asking him what’s going on, she pulls out her phone. “Netflix? Your choice.”

*

Genevieve tosses the scrunchie in the trash, her hair whipping against her face as she stalks towards the student parking lot. Right before she ducks into her car, she spares a final look towards the bus. She can see Peter and Lara Jean talking. She could be imagining it, but Peter’s face looks slightly panicked – Lara Jean’s, pissed.

Then Lara Jean turns around, pulling her pathetic little wheeling luggage behind her, determined.

Gen smirks. Then she dumps her bag into the passenger seat and gets into the car, pulling away. She very deliberately does not look at her phone, even though it pings multiple times, on the drive home. Safety first, after all.

Dad’s car is not in the driveway. No surprise there. Mom’s is, and Gen can see from outside that her light is on in the bedroom. Once inside, she can’t hear a thing though, and she checks the liquor cabinet - and again, it’s no surprise to see the red wine is missing.

She feels her mouth pucker, bitterness cloying at the back of her throat, but she picks up a bottle of Scotch – Daddy’s favorite – and sits down on the couch in the darkness. As she takes a swig, she unlocks her phone and checks the messages.

_What the hell did you do._

_Call me._

_I’m serious Gen don’t dick me around._

_What did you tell LJ?_

Gen takes another deep gulp of the Scotch and types in: _Nothing but the truth._ Then she sinks deeper into the couch and brings up Instagram. The video she sent to Anonybitch during the bus ride won’t be up for a while – whoever runs it can sometimes be slow. But whatever. Pretty soon, everyone’s gonna know what a hypocritical little slut Lara Jean is – beyond the usual ribbing couples get the morning after on the bus. And knowing her high-and-mighty, sanctimonious ass, there’s no way she’s getting back with Peter. They’ll both suffer, and they deserve every last fucking bit of it.

“Merry fucking Christmas, bitches,” she whispers, and then she giggles, but it comes out more like a sob. So she takes another swig of the Scotch, having no idea if she meant Lara Jean or Peter, or even herself.

-tbc-


	10. Cookies

“Ohhhh, yay!” Margot says, clapping her hands as the porch columns light up spectacularly in golds and reds. Kitty leans in for a hug, and she wraps her arm around her and Lara Jean’s shoulders. “I hope Dad comes back soon.”

“I would _never_ want to be born right before Christmas,” Kitty declares, as they walk back into the house. “Could you imagine? Being stiffed for your birthday. Or stiffed for Christmas. Whichever.”

“So, what shall we bake first?” Margot says, as they follow her into the kitchen. “Sugar cookies? Gingerbread men?”

“Snicker doodles,” Lara Jean says, listless.

“That’s not very Christmas-y,” Kitty says, perching atop a bar stool and leaning on the island countertop.

“Is something wrong?” Margot asks, peering at her.

Lara Jean snaps herself out of it. “Nothing, was just in the mood for snicker doodles,” she says, false-brightly. “Um, I’m just gonna bring up my luggage. I’ll be right down.”

Upstairs, she throws open the suitcase. On top of the pile of messily-packed clothing is her nightgown. The case smells overwhelmingly of chlorine – and just underneath that, smoked wood and pine.

Biting the inside of her cheek, Lara Jean grabs all the clothes, marches to the laundry room, and starts loading them into the washer one by one. _Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid._ How could she be so freaking _stupid?_ The bus – Genevieve – her scrunchie – _Peter_ . . .

He’d never wanted her. It really was all just about Gen. And she was so dumb to fall for it all and think that he’d might actually –

Footsteps pound up the stairs. Lara Jean hastily wipes at her eyes and adds detergent to the washer. “Hey, everything okay?” Margot asks, coming into the laundry room.

“Yeah, just wanted to get this on,” Lara Jean says, not turning around.

Margot comes up and hugs her from behind. Lara Jean sags in relief against her.

Just last night – technically, this _morning_ – she’d been so happy at the idea of sharing this Christmas tradition with Peter – so comforted by the fact that though her older sister wasn’t around, that life was changing so rapidly and confusingly around her, she at least had someone to share this very important part with – someone – someone who _got it_ – and now that’s all shot to pieces.

_At least Gogo’s back,_ she thinks, turning around to give her a hug. Even though things got so screwed up, at least she and Josh are cool with each other now – and Margot’s none the wiser. She can enjoy being with her family again, with a clear conscience. And everything will be all right, now that her big sister is here.

“You sure you’re ok?” Margot asks, pulling away to look at her.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just tired,” Lara Jean lies.

“You only want to bake snicker doodles if – ” Margot hesitates.

“If what?” she asks, confused.

“Nothing. Never mind. Come on,” Margot says taking her hand and leading her out of the laundry room and down the stairs. “I vote for chocolate chip cookies.”

*

Kitty watches her older sisters chatter over the chocolate chip cookie mixture, listens to the details of Margot's plane trip home. It all sounds so very fascinating and grown-up. Everything is back to being familiar to her – the Christmas decorations, the festive music, her sisters starting the Christmas cookie bonanza. There’s only one thing missing . . .

She flops down on the couch and pulls out her cell phone. _Hey. Can you come over? I’ve got a Christmas card for you!_

He might not answer – he sometimes doesn’t, these days. And yeah, _maybe_ she made it a little awkward for him and LJ, sending out that letter and all, but whatever. Now that Margot’s back, Josh and she can talk it out, get back together. After all, Lara Jean has Peter now.

Speaking of . . . where _is_ he anyway? He never said if Lara Jean liked the snacks he got her. Maybe she can get LJ to get him over here, too.

She slides onto a bar stool next to Margot, and asks about Scotland.

*

The ball sails past Peter, straight into the net. “I said not to go easy on me!” Owen yells, frustrated, leaning on his lacrosse stick.

Peter sighs and picks up the ball with the scoop, tosses it back to Owen. “Got away from me,” he says, distracted. “Again.”

This time, Peter blocks it. He lets Owen try a few more times, not really putting much effort into it. At least it makes Owen think he’s getting better. He really shouldn’t have agreed to come out to the park with him, but it’s better than wallowing in the house. After a while, he checks the sky – it’s only minutes from getting dark. “Come on,” he says, removing his gloves and tucking them under his arm. “Let’s get going.”

He barely listens to Owen’s chatter as they make their way out of the park and into the lot, just nods along at the right moments – he thinks. He dumps the equipment into the back of the Jeep and hops into the driver’s seat, and as he waits for Owen to buckle up, he checks his messages.

One from Gen – _Nothing but the truth._

Nothing from Lara Jean.

Irritated, he pounds the back of his head against the headrest.

“Yo. Earth to Peter!” Owen waves his hand in front of his face. Annoyed, Peter bats his little brother’s hand away. “Are we driving or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Peter grumbles, turning the ignition on.

“Is Lara Jean coming over for movie night?” Owen asks, playing on his Switch. “I wanna watch _Die Hard._ ”

“She’s not gonna wanna watch _Die Hard_ even if she were coming,” Peter says, making the turn onto the main road towards home.

“How come she’s not coming over?”

Peter shakes his head. “She’s just not.”

“Did you guys get into, like, a fight or something?”

Peter glances at him. Owen’s a quiet kid, but he sees things – saw things during their parents’ divorce. He’d know a lot about couples fighting. “No,” he lies, keeping his gaze on the road. “She’s just not coming over, is all.” Then he decides, on a whim almost, “I’m going over there.”

They pull into the driveway. “Tell Mom I’ll be back later,” he says, as Owen clambers out.

“She’s gonna want to know if you want dinner.”

“I won’t.”

Owen shrugs his shoulders and shuts the door.

Peter takes the drive to Covey’s slowly. He’s not sure what to say to her, if she’ll even let him talk to her. _Nothing but the truth._ That’s what Gen had said. So – what does Lara Jean know? What doesn’t she know? She’d said something about the scrunchie – she knows about going over to Gen’s room –

He doesn’t get it. It’s just a scrunchie. Okay, he forgot about it, that’s on him – but it’s a fucking hair thing. If it’s more about going to Gen’s room – well . . . okay, _objectively_ it looks bad, but _nothing_ happened, and to be honest he’s kinda pissed she thought something had? And – besides. He had to let Gen down easy. Especially considering . . .

_What if she knows about the hot tub?_

As he parks the Jeep in front of the Coveys’, he leans his forehead on the steering wheel and groans, loud, in frustration. Everything got so. Fucking. Messed. Up.

Sighing, he shuts off the engine – looks up at the house. It’s already decorated for Christmas, and with the light streaming out the first floor windows, he can tell people are at home, although Dr. Covey’s car is not in the driveway. He gets out of the car and walks up to the front porch, wiping his hands on his jeans, nervous.

If he could just talk to her. Get her to understand. She’ll understand, once he tells her everything, even . . . even the shitty parts, about Gen. About himself. Because, yes – he fucked up. But she’s always been so kind to others, compassionate – to _him_ – so she’ll have to understand. Right?

He knocks on the door.

-tbc-


	11. Viral

Chris takes a sip of her beer, eyeing the party like a suspicious, caged animal. She usually never goes to these types of things – these ragers where everybody from _that crowd_ gets together that can last for days. Tonight is night two of the ski trip after party – this time at Greg’s – and this is _not her scene at all_. She wouldn’t even be here if she hadn’t lost all common freaking sense and allowed herself to be sweet-talked into it by someone with absolutely appalling musical taste.

Who unironically likes Backstreet Boys anyway?

Speaking of, there he is, finally coming back to the couch. She frowns – he’d promised snacks, and he’s definitely not carrying a slice of pizza or a bowl of popcorn.

“Hey, um, starving here, remember?” she says, waving.

“Yeah, uh, so,” Trevor says, and grabs her elbow. Confused, she lets him lead her off to a quiet(er) corner of Greg’s house, jostling people out of the way. He looks around, then says, “So . . . don’t kill me?”

Chris eyes him carefully. “Uh, why would I kill you?”

“Because – I’m giving your friend a heads up.”

“A heads up?”

Trevor takes a deep breath and texts something on his phone. In her jacket pocket, her phone buzzes and pings. Confused, she unlocks it and finds a link to an Instagram page. She clicks on it. _What?_

“Is that . . .?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no way,” Chris says, almost laughingly, as she shakes her head. “I mean, LJ doesn’t do that kind of . . .” She peers at the video again. That’s – that’s definitely Kavinsky, right? And while that couldn’t be LJ that looks _awfully_ like her –

“Who took this?” she asks, quietly.

“Dunno. Someone submitted it.”

She peers at the account, noticing for the first time the name. “Anonybitch?!” _Oh my god._ It’s going to be all over Adler High, then. Lara Jean is going to freak out. Lara Jean is legit going to freak out and – Something awful occurs to her. “You guys didn’t post it on there, did you?”

“What?”

“Greg and Peter. And – y-you.” Chris glares at him, angry. “You know. He gets her in that tub, you and Greg film it – That’s _exactly_ the kind of shit you douchebag lax types would pull.”

Trevor glares back, insulted. “Uh, _no. I_ was the one who warned _you._ ”

“To throw me off,” she says.

“ _We_ were together all night that night, how could _I_ film it?” Chris shifts uncomfortably on her feet. “And no way, Peter’s crazy about her. He’d never – ”

“Whatever.” Chris shakes her head, already pushing past him. He’s got a point.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To warn LJ,” she shouts over her shoulder, as she stalks towards the front door.

“So . . . we still on for tomorrow?” he calls.

She flashes him the peace sign, without looking back – laughing, despite the situation. But when she slides into her car, she’s in full-on panic mode.

_IS THIS YOU?_

*

“So . . . he’s not coming to get us, then?” Owen asks, quietly.

Peter looks away, from Mom’s strained smile. “No, honey, I’m sorry,” she says, kindly. “But it’s ok. I’d rather have you guys here with me, anyway. Gets lonely without you two monsters.”

“So what’s his excuse this time?” Peter says, angrily jabbing at his broccoli so that the fork scrapes against the plate. Normally, he wouldn’t push the issue – not in front of Owen, at least – but his bad mood from the past few days has begun to flare again.

Mom says, mildly, “I’m not really sure. He said something about mixing up the schedule.” She takes a sip of her water.

“It’s not hard,” Peter says, leaning back in his chair. Owen just picks at his chicken, biting his lip. “You guys switch off on holidays. It’s not rocket science. Maybe if he’d bother calling he’d remember better.”

“Well,” Mom says, carefully, “I think he was a little put off that last year’s Thanksgiving didn’t go well . . . He mentioned maybe a bit of time and space – and he said they were going to visit family for Christmas – ”

At the mention of “family” Peter pushes back his chair and stands up. “Peter,” Mom says, dropping her fork.

“No, that’s bullshit, because he _had_ a family,” he snaps. “I don’t get why you bother defending him. He’s an asshole. A fucking deadbeat. Treats us – and you – like fucking shit.”

“Peter!” Mom exclaims, glancing across the table at Owen, who’s now red-faced and blinking back tears.

Immediately he feels awful about what he just said. “Sorry, O,” he gruffs out, and then turns and runs up the stairs.

Inside his bedroom, he throws his pillow against the wall, as hard as he can. There’s a dent there, from when he used to punch it during the rougher days of his parents’ divorce. Then he flops down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, until even that begins to drive him crazy, and he puts his arm over his eyes.

It’s not like he actually wanted to go. About 48 hours ago he could’ve cared less. Honestly. But then shit hit the fan with Lara Jean and he’d been looking forward to getting away from everything for the week. Typical.

And now the ironic thing is – the one person he could’ve talked to about this utter fucking bullshit with his father – is the one person who won’t even speak to him anymore.

_With good fucking reason._ He’d fucked everything up. She’d only did this whole thing to get that dickhead out of her way and make sure her sister never found out. Not to mention what went down with Gen. If he could take everything back he would’ve. Just – gotten out of that damn tub and –

Someone knocks on the door. “Peter?”

Peter rolls his eyes and rolls onto his front, scrabbling for his phone on his nightstand. He ignores the text message notifications – just Trevor, and Greg, a whole bunch of them – and turns on some music, as loud as it can go.

The door pounds again. “When you’re able to not act like a jerk, come down and finish your dinner.” Another pound, for emphasis, but just under the music he hears Mom shuffle away.

_Can’t get any worse._ He’s pissed off his mother, he’s upset his little brother, and Covey won’t talk to him.

Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas.

His phone buzzes – a text from Greg shows up in the preview – _Man check ur fucking phone._ He frowns. He hadn’t realized it, but there are actually 33 texts on his phone – and three missed calls. Mom has a “no phones at the table” rule so it’s not unusual to see a bunch of texts after dinner but this is extreme.

He opens up his texts.

_FUUUUUUuuuuUU –_

-tbc-


	12. To the Rescue

Okay okay okay. Panicking? Not a good look.

He could comment on the post – and deny it – but that would make things a hundred different kinds of ways worse. There’s already a shit ton of comments there, congratulating him – which, _no_ – but there’s also a bunch incorrectly guessing other people. So it’s better to not post anything and draw attention to himself and Lara Jean.

He could message the admin for Anonybitch but who knows if he/she would even care?

Greg and Trevor already said they reported it for him, but he doesn’t trust asking anyone else on the team to. Max is kinda douchey and Cal would be the exactly type of dude to go and post his adventures with his girlfriend on Anonybitch himself.

And so in the end, there’s only one thing a seventeen-year-old boy can do in a situation like this. Even though it makes him literally want to die.

Mom exits out of Instagram and sets his phone on the table. “Well,” she says, after a long, drawn-out moment, where she just rubs her temple and stares at an indeterminate spot on the floor. “You’re _obviously_ grounded.”

Peter nods, stuffing his hands into his sweatshirt pockets and staring at his feet. She doesn’t saying anything more, not for a long time, and so he finally shuffles his feet, feeling like he’s ten years old again, and mumbles, “Um . . . is that i-it . . .?”

“I’m _thinking_ ,” she snaps, angrily, and he flinches. She drums her fingernails on the kitchen table and after another long moment says, lowly, “First things first. Are you being safe?”

Well, that’s not the first question he expected. “Um – we weren’t – it wasn’t – ” He almost tells her that Lara Jean broke up with him, but from the look on Mom’s face he gathers now is not the time. “Yes, but we didn’t have sex. There. In the video.” A vein twitches on Mom’s forehead. “Or, um, ever, actually.”

Her jaw tightens. He’s not sure if she believes him – and he’s pretty sure she’s about to ask _What about Gen?_ – and holy hell he _did not_ need to play _This Is Your Sex Life_ with his freaking _mother_ – but then she asks, “Do you know who posted it?”

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek, pretending that the pattern of the floor tiles is the most fascinating thing on the planet. Mark Conway, maybe – from that last comment on the bus.

But . . . he has a very distinct feeling who is the actual prime suspect.

Even so, he’s not going to say. He can’t. Especially since a good chunk of the responsibility is his own damn fault.

“No idea,” he says, as innocently as he can.

Mom glares at him. “Really? Not one of your friends – ”

“Come on, Mom, they wouldn’t do this. They’re the ones who told me it was up in the first place!”

“You’re a bunch of teenage boys, and believe me, I know what the hell teenage boys get up to,” she says, forcefully. “If you know who did it, I have to know too, so I can go to the principal and – ”

“No way, Mom, I’m not a freaking rat,” Peter interrupts.

“This kind of thing ruins futures, Peter!” Mom slaps her hand down on the kitchen table. His phone rattles. “You have freaking _Stanford_ knocking on your door. Stanford! You are _this close_ to tossing all of that out the window. And have you even thought what this could do to Lara Jean?” She presses her forefinger and thumb into her eyelids and sighs again. “I should really call her father. God. I thought she had more common sense.”

There’s something in the way Mom said that last part to unpack that he really doesn’t have the time for, because true panic is starting to take over. “ _What?_ ” God, no, look – okay, I don’t know. I really don’t know who posted it. I just need help getting it off. Please, Mom.”

Mom shakes her head. “Do they have a customer service number?”

“On _Instagram_?!”

“I meant,” Mom says, testily, “is there a way to report this? That won’t involve your principal. Or another parent.”

Peter takes his phone back and finds the Help Center. “You can contact them to get images of your kids off,” he says. “I had some of the guys report it too, but – I dunno, I think they’d listen to an adult more.”

Mom sits back in her chair and crosses his arms, regarding him with one of these glares that makes him want to shrink into his shoes. “You’re grounded until at _least_ the New Year,” she says. “No parties, no friends. You’re working at the store every single day, opening ‘til closing. You’re to go to lacrosse practice only. And If you’re not at practice, and if you’re not at the store, you’re in your room, studying.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Cross me one time this holiday and I will make sure this extends until _February_ ,” she adds, angrily. “And that phone is mine the entire time. You have five minutes to make sure Lara Jean is ok and tell her you’re not allowed to see her until you are back in school. And that’s _if_ I’m feeling generous.” She stands up. “Now, I’m going to the wine cabinet because I will need a very stiff drink.”

Peter barely hears her leave. He just stares at his lock screen – it’s that picture of Lara Jean he took ages ago, embarrassed and hiding her red cheeks behind her hands. At the time he thought it was cute – _she_ was cute. But now it’s just a reminder how innocent and sweet she is.

And now – now, how he could say anything to her _now_? She made it abundantly fucking clear that he wasn’t welcome anywhere near her anymore, not that he blames her. “I’m sorry” isn’t enough. Just a few hours ago, he’d been worried that an apology would never make up for what happened after the bus ride – for what happened with her sister. Now it’s _this_ fucking shit, which he knows is so much worse.

So Peter texts Trevor, and Greg. _Tx. I’m grounded. Later._ Then he opens his messages to Covey. He starts to type something in – deletes it, starts over – finally decides on, _Hey are you ok?_

But he can’t bring himself to press send. Instead, he deletes the message – changes his password just in case Mom decides to get nosy – and turns off the phone and leaves it on the kitchen table. Then he heads up to bed.

He’ll talk to her, in person, after Christmas break. It’s not like, he’s wimping out. Really. It’s just better to talk about this face to face. By then, the post will be deleted – it will have to be. People will forget over break.

They have to.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW ABOUT THAT TRAILER MMMMM? ;D ;D ;D


	13. Monday Morning Quarterback

Lara Jean looks at herself in her full-length mirror. Demure grey sweater over a white Peter Pan blouse – mini-skirt, but with the cold weather, thick opaque mustard knee-highs, so it’s _cute_ and not risqué. Non-sex sex-tape making its rounds over winter break means making very deliberate choices in her back-to-school attire and hair. She thinks about calling Kitty over – after all, she owes her braid crowns for the rest of her life – but they’re already running late. Besides, she can hide her face underneath her hair, if need be.

_I like your hair down. You look pretty._

Stubbornly, she locks that memory away, and heads to her dresser – grabs a pink satin scrunchie and finger-combs her hair into a loose bun on top of her head.

He never even so much as texted. Okay, so she told him to go home - and when she said it, she _meant_ it, and she meant it in the _and never come back_ kind of way. But that was before the video got posted. The video that got posted that very clearly had all those comments. Those comments congratulating him.

(And so many of them calling her a slut.)

“You should talk to him,” Margot had said, right before she hugged Lara Jean at the terminal yesterday.

“Like you talked to Josh?” Lara Jean had shot right back.

“How do you know I didn’t?” she said, pointedly. Lara Jean had frowned at that. “We talked last night. We’re good. He understands.” She pulled her in for another hug. “You’re my sister. Don’t just – close yourself off. I just want to see you happy, okay?” Then she whispered, “You should probably talk to Josh, too.”

_I am going to miss you so much,_ was all Lara Jean could think, and then Daddy and Kitty and she were waving good-bye to Gogo again, and she’d thought, inexplicably, _Walk right out . . ._

It’s so much lonelier, making the drive to school without Peter. Also, a lot scarier – she’s behind the wheel, frantically checking her mirrors, trying to listen and at the same time ignore Kitty’s excited chatter. Her palms are sweaty well before she drops Kitty off at the middle school, and the car is at a crawl by the time she parks – neatly, but slowly, in her designated spot at the high school lot.

She stays in the car for a full minute, trying not to hyperventilate, watching people walk past the car via her rearview mirror.

_Everybody is going to be looking at me._

Nervous, she pulls out the scrunchie and brushes her fingers through her hair, hands shaking.

“Hey.” Lara Jean jumps. Lucas and Chris are by the window.

A rush of gratitude goes through her as she gets out of the car, and she wants to hug both of them as tight as she can. She almost does, but Chris backs away and says, sassily, “What? Nothing to see here.”

“Right,” Lara Jean says, nodding along with a big smile.

“C’mon, babe,” Lucas says, and together, the three of them walk into the high school.

*

“Keys?”

Peter pats his back jeans pocket, the weight of them somehow unfamiliar, considering how long he’s been grounded. Mom had even insisted on driving him to and from lacrosse practice over break. “Check.”

“Lunch?”

He lifts his backpack. “Check.”

“All Christmas break homework done?”

“Chyeeeaaack . . .?” He winces, aware that he ended the statement like a question.

Mom glares.

“Technically, the English paper isn’t due until _next_ Monday.”

“Well, I guess you’re still grounded until next Monday,” Mom muses, turning back to the island to finish making Owen’s lunch.

“ _Mom!_ ”

“Are you _really_ trying to cross me today, Peter?” she snaps, jamming the sandwich into a Ziploc bag. “You are lucky that post came down. I don’t even know if Instacart even read my message.”

“Insta _gram_.”

“Instayouarestillgrounded.”

“Instapleasepleaseplease,” he says, with his hands up in a prayer position. He can see his phone next to the condiments and bread. “Mom – Mother – Mommy.”

Mom zips up Owen’s lunch bag, still not looking at him. “I’m only giving you the car and phone back because of practical reasons.”

“But if I finish the paper tonight . . .?”

“Ha, good luck with _that_ ,” Mom snorts, derisively. She turns around and crosses her arms and looks at him. Peter drops to both knees and pouts, which he knows always makes her laugh – and she does, rolling her eyes. “You know you’re not getting that paper done tonight.”

“Thought I’d try,” he grumps, standing up. “It’ll be done by Friday, I swear.”

Mom sighs, and rubs the back of her neck. “Stop looking like I shot your dog,” she says, then straightens as if she’s made a decision. “No going out until then with your friends. But I’ll let you see Lara Jean – if she comes here.”

Peter makes sure to give her a big smile. He never did tell her that they’re – well – whatever, broken up from fake dating and real dating. All dating.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says. “And, uh, thanks for not telling her dad.” Mom sighs again, clearly still ill at ease over that, but he snatches his phone back, and jogs out of the house before Mom can look too quickly at his face. He’d been hoping to be fully ungrounded so at least he could hang out with the guys and not constantly have nothing to do besides be reminded of how much of a colossal fuck up he is.

In the Jeep, he turns on the phone. Looks at the little red number of text messages that’s been sent to him over the week and decides, very consciously, not to check them. It’s only going to be the guys if he’s been ungrounded yet. (Or worse. He’d gotten a lot of looks during lax practice over break – Max looked like he wanted to say something and Cal almost did until Greg took care of him during scrimmage. He hopes he’s still limping.)

But. Anyway. It’s not like he’s _avoiding_ things. It’s not a habit he’s like, developed (from someone). He’s got a plan.

The good thing is that no one seems to pay him any particular attention when he enters the school and walks to his locker. Just as he suspected, whatever fuss from the Anonybitch post has blown over thanks to everyone being away from Christmas break – no one says anything to him, or so much looks his way. A few lockers down, he can hear a group of girls talking shit about something what went down with the Debate Society over New Year’s Eve.

Good.

He stuffs his backpack into his locker, closes the door and spins the combination lock, and takes a deep breath.

Time to man up and talk to Lara Jean. Although as he heads through the crowd towards her locker, he’s still not quite sure what to say. No – he knows what to say, just not how to say it – that he’s sorry he didn’t have the courage to speak up sooner, to tell her how he felt. Feels. That maybe if he had, if they had cut through the bullshit, her sister wouldn’t have found out about her and Josh – he wouldn’t have moped around in the hot tub – Gen wouldn’t have come down and seen and possibly (definitely) taken that video.

That if he hadn’t been so scared of falling in –

There’s a crowd in the hall, and laughter, right before Lara Jean’s locker – and suddenly there she is, head down, hair flapping behind her, as she stalks towards him, unseeing because there’s tears streaming down her face.

_What the hell._

*

He finds Gen just before lunch – deliberately stakes out Emily’s locker, because he can tell when she’s avoiding him. Covey may have said to leave it, it’s her fight – but that doesn’t cover _his_ beef with Gen.

“You mind?” Peter asks Emily, pleasantly, leaning against the row of lockers.

Emily glances at Gen, shouldering her backpack as she shuts her door. “I’m good, thanks, PK,” she says, crossing her arms.

Peter checks over his shoulder, then leans in conspiratorially. “I hear Blake is looking for you.”

That does the trick. She’s been after him since sophomore year. Emily raises her eyebrows at Gen and beats a hasty retreat. He gestures towards the exit. Gen purses her lips together angrily but follows him outside, to the bleachers.

But he doesn’t walk up them. “I can’t believe you did all of that,” he says, turning abruptly.

She wraps an arm around herself, examines her nails coolly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Come _on._ How stupid do you think I am?”

She levels her gaze at him. “Pretty stupid, actually,” she says, angry. “ _Both_ of you are stupid and pieces of shit for what you did.”

He gapes at her, stunned. “Wait wait wait hold up. No – she didn’t – you think she _knew_ you were coming down?”

She screws her face up. “How stupid do you think _I_ am?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid! I think you’re messed up if you think Lara Jean deliberately went and – ” He splutters for a moment, still totally thrown, and says, “She had no idea. I had no idea _she_ was coming down. I thought she was – we had – ” He groans, and flops down on the bleachers, suddenly exhausted. He’d tried, in the hallway – but people’ll still talk shit. He’d been congratulated for being so honorable by a bunch of freshman girls after second period – Cal even leaned across the aisle in Pre-Calc to ask if he was telling the truth. _He’ll_ be fine. But Lara Jean . . .

He looks up when he hears Gen take a tentative seat next to him on the bleachers. She looks a little stricken – but there’s still that defiant set in her shoulders that he recognizes. “Well,” she says, voice hoarse. “What was I supposed to think? She was always – so . . . so – ”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Gen. You hurt me – fine. I get that. I deserve that. But you also hurt her and I’m – I’m done. I’m just done.” He stands up. “Don’t you _ever_ pull this kind of shit again.”

“What are you saying?” she says, voice brittle – but she’s just looking at a spot over his shoulder, not at him. She suddenly looks very tiny and defeated – and just as suddenly, he thinks about what it means, to walk away from someone he used to care about.

Like _really_ walk away.

“I’m saying just stay the hell away from me,” he grumbles, and before she can say anything else, he heads back to the school, hands stuffed in his pockets and head down. Gen yells something at him, maybe it’s his name, but it’s lost in the wind and chatter of other students around him, and he thinks, bitterly, how it turns out he’s a lot like his dad more than he cares to admit.

-tbc-


	14. Unsaid

“So. You. Drove here?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow.” Peter rubs his chin, thoughtfully. “So how many stop signs did you run through?”

“Stop,” Lara Jean giggles, too happy to mind his teasing. 

“Run over any pet poodles?”

“Okay - it was that one time - and she ran out onto the road so quickly - I stopped in time!”

“You didn’t answer my question about the stop signs.”

Lara Jean turns up her nose at him. “Like. Two?”

“Well.” He blows a long, impressed breath out. “I mean I know I’m hot but I didn’t know you were so desperate to -“

Lara Jean doubles over laughing. “You’re so ridiculous!” He tugs her closer to him as they walk back towards the school. At least, she thinks she’s walking. Her legs are jittery, her heart thumping so fast she sounds slightly hysterical whenever she laughs. She could be walking, but she thinks she’s floating. 

At the entrance to the locker rooms, he stops - grabs both her hands, thumbs rubbing gently. Her breath hitches but he doesn’t kiss her - just rests his mouth against her forehead. He smells sweaty and logically it should be disgusting but he also smells like cool and crisp winter wind. It could be her imagination, but she thinks, just underneath it, she can smell chlorine and pine and snow. She lifts her chin and kisses his - he shifts, and when he opens his mouth she remembers with a hot, intense clarity how much he seemed to like it when she slid her tongue against his in the tub, and so she does it again - light, but purposeful. Intentional. 

It’s like something goes off - he presses closer, and his hands go to her face, thumbs stroking now the apples of her cheeks. She stumbles a bit - because he’s so tall, and she loses her balance - but digs her fingers around his waist, scrabbling for purchase in the thickness of his sweatshirt. 

“Can I drive you home? Come over?” he murmurs, against her mouth. It comes out muffled so she doesn’t answer him right away, trying to parse out what he said through the heady rush of heat. 

“Um - yeah. But I drove here, remember?” She giggles a little, resting her forehead against his chest. It’s so funny that he forgot. And it’s so nice to know that she made him forget. It’s wonderful, this reveling feeling in her chest, the warmth and relief and celebration. 

He laughs into her hair. His breath is a warm puff and she closes her eyes. _Mine. Wow._

“Yeah. And I forgot. I’m still grounded.”

“Grounded?”

“Yeah that’s why I couldn’t - well, why I didn’t -“

“What happened?” She looks up. He winces. 

“Well, um - my mom - the video -“

“Your _mom_ saw it?!” Lara Jean shrieks. “Oh my god. Oh my _god_.”

“Relax! Okay? She’s okay. She helped me get the video down -“

“Margot helped me,” Lara Jean admits.

“So ... does your dad know?” He looks a little scared at that. 

“No, thank god. But your _mom_?!”

“Is fine. She was more worried about you, actually.” Lara Jean looks up at him skeptically. “She was! And anyway she won’t be home, she’s at the store ‘til closing today.”

“I dunno, if you’re grounded ...”

“She specifically said you could come over. Like, she made the exception for _you_. Come on. I thought you missed me?” He steps closer, arms over hers, hands linked at the small of her back. She should feel trapped, caged - but she doesn’t at all. 

“Never said I missed you, Kavinsky,” she says, smiling up at him. He gives her a look - brow cocked like _Come on, Covey_ , and she snorts and says, “Okay. Let me drive home and you can drive me to yours?”

*

She’s not nervous until she unbuckles her safety belt and hops down from the passenger side of Peter’s Jeep - almost tumbles out, actually. The height of that thing is an ankle-breaker. Or maybe it’s just her nerves.

His mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. “Where’s your brother?” she asks, as they walk up to the front door. 

Peter fiddles with the lock, keys jangling. “Probably at his friend’s. Mom’ll pick him up.” He pushes the door open, unslings his backpack and lax bag from his shoulder. “I gotta shower. Do you want anything?”

Lara Jean shakes her head. He grins and shoots up the stairs, looking back at her as he goes. She grins back and takes off her coat, hanging it on a hallway hook - turns to leave, but she hears her phone buzz in her coat pocket. 

_Well?_

Lara Jean rolls her eyes, but grins, face flushing. She sends a row of blue love hearts, and some lacrosse emojis too. 

Kitty sends her an angry face emoji - probably over the lack of details - but then quickly follows up with heart-eyes. 

She giggles and slides her phone back into the coat pocket and takes a few tentative steps deeper into the Kavinsky house. 

It’s only the second time she’s been inside. All those other times, as kids, don’t count - those brief spurts in childhood play where you have to dash to your friend’s for a quick bathroom break or someone needs to grab a snack or a brand new gadget or jersey or something to show off. The first _real_ time was dinner with his mom, and she’d been so nervous, so confused already about what was _really_ going on that she hadn’t had the sense to take in her surroundings. 

It’s different here, than her house - darker furniture, darker paint colors. Like, she can _tell_ boys live here. It’s clean and reasonably tidy but instead of bright walls it’s blues and greys and dark browns and pictures of the boys at various sports events. 

Upstairs, she hears a thud, like Peter’s bags hitting his bedroom floor, maybe – the door shut. Somewhere, the pipes begin to shudder. She peers at one wall display - Owen, little, maybe in kindergarten, posing with a soccer ball - Peter, still in his baseball phase as a middle schooler, at the plate waiting for a pitch. She steps back and looks at the wall of framed photos and realizes, with a sharp, little pang, that Peter was right ... there are no pictures of his dad, anywhere. He might as well have never been there, in his family’s lives. His boys’ lives. 

_Mom’s pictures are everywhere. She’s smiling in all of them. She’s got her arms around us. She looks at Dad and they’re both so happy ... at least I have these reminders ..._

She takes a tentative seat on the couch, unlaces her platform shoes and toes them off. Checks around nervously. Finds the remote and scrolls through the options – pauses to watch some auto previews, the sound blaring over the faint hum of the shower. Something comforting. A comedy? But not a romcom. Maybe a Disney movie? But can’t be a princess one. Definitely not a romance film, Peter wouldn’t want to watch that and – 

She hears his footsteps at the top of the stairs and fumbles with the remote, nearly dropping it on the floor. 

“Hey I’m grabbing a Coke you want any?” Peter asks, breezing by her towards the kitchen. 

“Y-yeah,” she says, losing her battle with the remote and snatching it from the rug. “What do you want to watch?”

“Dunno,” he calls, over the rattle of the icemaker. He pads over to the couch and hands her a glass of Coke and sets a bowl of chips on the coffee table. He sits down next to her, folds one leg underneath him. His curls are hastily towel-dried and still slightly damp, sitting against his forehead. She bites back the temptation to comb them with her fingers. “Technically, think it’s your turn.”

Turn? He wants to continue movie night ...? 

And maybe it’s easier, to do just that - melt from the pretend into the reality. They won’t have to think too hard about it. _She_ won’t have to think too hard about that. But then again, they were only doing that because of the contract. He doesn’t _really_ want to watch romcoms, does he?

The auto play preview turns on, and some gentlemanly British man starts intoning about baby elephants’ life cycles. Okay. Baby elephants are good. They’re cute. They’re neutral, safe territory. 

Peter pulls gently at her arm and they settle into the couch cushions, arm-to-arm, drinking their Cokes. Occasionally a baby elephant will do something extra cute like tumble over and squeal for its mom and Lara Jean will forget herself and make an “aww” squeal too and that’s just embarrassing and her face turns red. But Peter doesn’t seem to mind. He actually seems to find it funny - not in the making-fun-of-her way. It’s in the laughing with her way. 

“Peter?” she murmurs as the light begins to fade outside and their drinks are done, and she’s curled tight against his side, his arm over her shoulders. He’s half-passed out himself, but she’s still wide awake, too buzzed from everything that happened today, too aware of how nice he smells – that wintery scent of his bodywash, so sweetly cool and warm at the same time.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, hand stroking up and down her back. 

She nuzzles her head closer into his chest, unable to look at him. “You know what’s crazy? Even with everything - you know - coming out like that - I’m still really glad I went down to see you at the hot tub.”

*

His hand stills for a fraction of a second, and Peter swallows the sudden bitterness in his throat. “Me, too.”

It’s not a lie. He _is_ grateful. But she really has _no_ idea ... it’s all his fault, and she has no idea. 

_And it’s going to stay that way_ , he determines, resolutely, as she shifts to smile up at him - a sweet, adoring smile, eyes so bright that clenching sensation in his throat moves, tightly, into his chest. He’s going to do every freaking possible thing he can – to make sure she keeps smiling like that.

“Hey, I got an idea,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Let’s go somewhere. First official, real date.”

This time, she grins outright. “What? Really?” She sounds so surprised, thrilled even. It’s cute. It’s fucking adorable actually.

“Really.”

“Where?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, considering. There’s only real place he knows of that he can take her – _should_ take her. First official real date has to be someplace big and stuffy and fancy and important, right? Not, like, the _diner_. Even though the idea of chilling out late at night inhaling pancakes with extra syrup and drinking milkshakes is more of his thing. But the thing is, Lara Jean deserves something special, and something special means that he’ll need time. Cardona’s is expensive as hell. “It’s a surprise.”

If it’s even possible, her dimples deepen even more. “I like surprises.”

“Yeah? Good. But it’ll have to be next weekend. I’m still grounded until then.” Because there’s no way he can get the paper done this week, not if he needs to pull extra shifts at the shop to pay for this dinner.

Lara Jean pouts, but then her face melts into something like delight. “Ooo. I wonder what to wear,” she says, dreamily, and he has to laugh because – yeah. Only Lara Jean could say something like that with all earnest sincerity, and not make it sound shallow.

“Just wear your hair down,” he says, pulling at a strand lightly, and her expression softens, as she takes his hand and nuzzles his palm and kisses it, ever so lightly. _God_. He got so fucking lucky. He leans in and kisses her, tries to keep it gentle and not to go in too deep and scare her off or something but she kisses back, shifts close.

Really, truly, undeservedly lucky.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooo very clear i will not be able to finish the second movie before february 12th! but i think that'll be ok, i think (i hope!!!!), because i want some of the third movie to influence these snippets. :) thanks to all still reading and commenting.


	15. #Cardona's

Peter bangs on the locker next to Trevor’s, frustrated. “Will you hurry up?” he gripes. “I’m late.”

“For what?” Trevor asks, seemingly taking his dear, sweet time packing all his lax gear into his duffel bag.

Peter checks the time on his phone. Coach had kept them over an hour past practice because supposedly a scout from UCLA is coming to one of their games – he doesn’t know when, he doesn’t even know the scout’s name, he just knows he’s coming “soon” – and honestly, Peter would’ve been more nervous about it because Mom has been on his case about talking to Coach about these California colleges (“Staaaaanford,” she keeps saying), but he’s just got one thing on his mind today. And that is getting home, getting showered and dressed, and getting Lara Jean for their date.

_Oh, and flowers_ , he suddenly remembers, a few minutes later, as he’s giving Trevor a lift back to his house. He stops at the grocery store – if he doesn’t do it now, he’s going to be even more late. “I gotta grab something,” he says.

“Weren’t you the one desperate to go home?” Trevor asks, confused. Peter ignores him and slams the door. “Wait, grab me a Red Bull?” Peter gives him the finger and rushes inside, jogging over to the flowers display by the registers. The roses are okay, he guesses. _But I dunno. Not really her style._ After what seems like an agonizingly long moment of indecision, he opts for the bouquet of bright pink daisies. She’s always doodling them in the margins of her notebooks.

“Jesus Christ,” Trevor says, when he finally comes back and sets the daisies in the backseat. “What, is this like, your anniversary or something?”

_Right._ Because everybody still thinks they’ve been dating since the start of junior year. Which – okay, yeah – but also –

“Yeah, or something,” Peter mutters, distracted, as he pulls out of the parking spot.

Trevor unwraps a power bar and bites into it. “Aren’t you, like, supposed to give her roses?”

Is it bad he wants to strangle his best friend? “If you’re like, seventy maybe?” Peter says, glancing at him. Trevor looks like the gears are turning in his head as he glances over his shoulder and at the pink daisies – like he’s got an idea.

But all Trevor says, around a mouthful of power bar, is a contemplative, “Hm!”

*

_This place is amazing._ Lara Jean browses through the menu, trying hard not to bite her lip and smear her lipstick. _Amazingly intimidating._ She’s not sure how to pronounce over half the things listed. Not to mention the _prices_ . . . Gosh. She would’ve been happy – thrilled, even – going to the Corner Café and ordering breakfast food in the middle of the night.

“I think I’ll just go with the four cheese ravioli,” she says, choosing something safe, familiar, and cheap … er.

“And something to drink?” the waiter asks, politely.

“Um . . .” A Sprite is _that_ much?! Is it like, a gallon of Sprite? “Water, please.” She hands him her menu and fiddles with her napkin as Peter orders. If he’s noticed her consternation, he doesn’t show it. So she tries to calm down and look around her – at the twinkling lights, glowing romantically – the walls decorated with posh paintings that are definitely _not_ the posed, school-picture-day local high school athletic teams, but look like they should be somewhere in an Italian museum – the other diners, of all varying ages but none of them teenagers and all of them very dressed up and wearing glittering jewelry.

It’s like playing tea-party, with Margot and Kitty, when they were much younger. Kitty was a baby and as the two oldest siblings, she and Margot would plop her down on a seat at the pink plastic table, lift their little pinkies in the air, and wrap feather boas around their necks – fake plastic pearls – floppy hats with ribbons. Kids play-acting at being grown-ups.

It’s _nice_ here, it’s beautiful – she’s just so – it’s _so_ not –

“So you’re not gonna believe what happened in history today,” Peter says, interrupting her thought-spiral.

It’s so disconcerting – talking about high school stuff in a place like this. But at the same time, she leans in, interested. Because she is a high-schooler, and yes, she really can’t wait to believe what happened in history today. “What?” she asks, as the waiter comes back with a basket of bread.

Peter leans in too. “Mrs. Patterson caught Mark Conway cheating on the pop quiz,” he says, practically gleeful. “There’s talk he’s gonna miss tomorrow’s football game against Long Haven.”

Lara Jean snickers. “And I bet the entire lacrosse team is absolutely devastated,” she says, buttering her bread. After the ski trip, she can safely say she doesn’t mind whatever punishment Mark Conway gets. It’s probably not much, anyway, knowing the way Adler High loves its jocks.

“Greg wants to go tomorrow with all the guys, give ‘em some hell from the stands. You want to come?”

“Yeah, because being petty and immature is the perfect response,” she says, dryly, which makes Peter snicker himself. “Besides, I can’t. I have to go to my grandparents for Korean New Year.”

“Korean New Year?” Peter pauses. “You never said your grandparents were still alive.”

Lara Jean takes extra time to swallow her bite of bread. “Mmm-hmm. Yeah. We’re not that close. But it’s nice to go. We dress up in hanboks and we eat, like, _so much_ great Korean food. We have to bow and stuff and they give us money for the new year. It’s good. It’s important to my dad, you know, ever since – anyway . . .” She fiddles with one of the forks – then the other, before carefully putting it down.

It’s also really hard, sometimes – the way Grandma looks at her, pats her cheeks tenderly, like she’s not looking at her, she’s searching for . . . she’s searching for Mom. Or when she catches Dad gazing at all the family photos on the walls, looking for the ones where Mom’s in them. Recovering herself, she says, with false brightness, “The only sucky thing is having to deal with my cousin Haven.”

Peter doesn’t reply right away – he’s looking at her like he wants to say something. She almost asks what, but then he seems to make a decision and asks, “Yeah?” And she’s so relieved, because yeah – she doesn’t want to get into all that, not _here,_ not on her first real date. “She a major pain in the ass?”

“No, I shouldn’t be so mean. But we’re complete opposites. She’s more like – mirror universe me.” Peter raises his brows. “Like, ok, picture me, but like – goth me.”

He bursts out laughing. “ _Goth_ you?”

“Yes,” Lara Jean giggles. “Like . . .” She pulls her hair so it drapes over her shoulders and down her front, dips her head slightly and relaxes her posture, and says in a dull, monotone voice, “Wow. Peter. This place is so. _Ordinary_.”

Peter laughs behind his hand – because the waiter arrives just at that moment, with their plates of salad. Lara Jean blushes as red as her dress and hides behind her fingers, cringing and looking away, because _god_ she hopes he didn’t hear her, especially since even the freaking salad here looks like a work of art.

“Who’s embarrassing now?” Peter stage-whispers when the waiter finally leaves.

“Shut up,” she mouths, and takes out her phone to snap a picture of said work of art that she’s about to devour.

When the main course arrives she does the same, and Peter remarks, “You’re one of those people.”

“What people?” Lara Jean asks, tongue sticking out as she picks the right filter.

“Sticks all their food on their Instagram,” he says, twirling his spaghetti around his fork.

“Mmm. Guess I am,” she admits, unashamed. Then she remembers something – something he said, back when they were fake dating, and he’d gotten so weird about finding her talking with Josh. She hadn’t known what to make of it, at the time – or rather she _had_ , but she hadn’t wanted to hope. She lifts up her phone and says, “Cheese,” taking a shot of Peter right as he bites into his spaghetti. The resulting photo is adorable, but he protests, and insists she takes another – which she does – but she hates the posed one because he does that _thing_ again, the slightly cocked brow, the barely discernible pout. It’s not him, not the guy she’s grown to know. It’s why she long-since changed her lockscreen from the one he took at Greg’s to the one where Trevor caught them sleeping on the couch.

“Come on, please?” she begs, pouting, and he rolls his eyes and smiles naturally this time, crinkled eyes and big grin, and she smiles, so thoroughly charmed she can’t say anything teasing. “Thank you.” She puts her salad, main course, and Peter with his spaghetti and meatballs into a slideshow post on Instagram and tags him, then adds the caption _#datenight #cardonas_. Peter checks the post on his own phone – taps something in – and looks across the table at her, smiling.

She glances down at her notifications. He’s liked her post and is the very first comment – a kissy face.

“Teenagers,” an older woman about their parents’ age snits as she brushes past their table with her equally snooty looking husband. “Always on their phones!”

Lara Jean’s eyes go wide and Peter coughs into his fist, both of them trying to choke back laughter.

*

It’s not like – being a _stalker_ – right? Like texting your not-technically-new-but-very-technically-real-and-no-longer-fake girlfriend the same night?

Thank god she does it first, though.

_Thank you for my perfect first date._

He grins. Wonders if it’s cheesy or stupid to text back something like, _Thank you for being perfect._ Decides he doesn’t care and texts it back anyway. Then puts his phone back on the nightstand, turns off the light, and rolls onto his stomach.

He’d been worried that Cardona’s, as nice as a place as it is, wouldn’t be her thing. He’d only been twice himself, both times because Gen had hinted – then heavily hinted – then outright insisted. But first dates are special, and he’s glad – thrilled, actually – that LJ had her perfect first date.

That _they_ had.

On a whim, he lifts his head from the pillow and picks up his phone again – finds a gif in his messages app, and sends it to her. Lara Jean promptly hearts the gif of two cartoon characters - he doesn't know who they are - sending two lanterns floating into the night sky, and sends him a kissy face and a _Good night._

Yeah. Perfect.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Peter sent LJ a gif from Tangled. 
> 
> Also, PLEASE TELL ME someone else noticed the pink daisy thing going on with Peter/LJ and Trevor/Chris!!!


	16. Sunshowers and Coffee

Golden sunlight, haloing a dark head of hair – a sweet, gentle smile. “You coming?” John Ambrose asks, setting the soccer ball against his hip, and then it’s suddenly raining while it’s still sunny. It’s literally sunshowers in the middle school soccer field.

Lara Jean gulps, heart thumping, as the rain dribbles down her face.

Her phone buzzes and she starts, abruptly snapping out of the memory.

_How was mirror universe you?_

Flushing, Lara Jean flops on top of her bed. _That was ages ago. That was middle school,_ she thinks, to herself. _That was nothing and he probably doesn’t remember._

(But he remembered the tree house. He said your hair was pretty. He wanted to know why now -)

_She was very mirror-y,_ Lara Jean texts in response to Peter.

He texts a tongue-out emoji, then another message, _Wanna go to Greg’s?_

Lara Jean makes a face, glad he can’t see her. No, she actually really doesn’t. Spending time with Peter – yes. But all those people – not to mention in all likelihood Gen and her crew will be there – yeah, no. She still gets dagger-eyes from Gen and Emily in the halls. And it’s a Sunday. Like – there’s no way Dad will even let her.

But she doesn’t wasn’t to seem lame or uncool, and she doesn’t want to explain why she doesn’t feel up to it – she really, honestly just doesn’t want to bring up Gen, it’s just done, whatever – and she takes a really long time to reply, typing in and then deleting and re-typing everything, to the point where she gets paranoid about the ellipsis that’s showing up on his end of the line. So she finally just says, _I never finished the bio assignment thanks to new year. Sorry._ To make it up to him she types in a kissy face emoji, and deliberately puts her phone down on her nightstand before staring up at the ceiling.

_I should tell him about the letter._

But it’s nothing. It’s just a hello, what’s up, how are you. Right?

Except – she doesn’t remember what her letter to John Ambrose actually _said._

Her phone buzzes. Lara Jean glances at it, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, before picking it up again. Will he be mad? Disappointed? Hurt? After all, it’s just another party. He couldn’t possibly –

A crying face emoji, but then a _K c u tmw._

So . . . he’s okay with her not coming? Okay. That’s good. She thinks. Of course it’s good.

Lara Jean tosses her phone on her bed, staring at her lock screen of them sleeping together.

Then a sudden, instinctive thought pierces her – _Snickerdoodles._

She leaps out of bed and thunders down the steps, headed straight for the kitchen.

*

“Come on come on come on pick it up pick it up go go go!”

“Ahhh I’m gonna _puke,_ ” Greg groans, sprinting up the bleachers besides Peter. Just as he says it, someone makes a retching sound behind them.

Peter shakes his head, his hair curling uncomfortably on his forehead, unable to reply. The sun has started to slant dangerously low, shadowing the field. It is getting really close to five, and his phone is in his duffel bag, and there’s no way to get to it without Coach seeing him and well he’s screwed and hopefully LJ hasn’t thought he’s ditched her or anything but –

“Kavinsky, _get a move on_ ,” Coach yells from down the field, and Peter stifles the groan that had been about to burble up and hauls ass to the top of the bleachers. All this bullshit for the _possibility_ that a scout is going to show up to one of their games.

_He’s only hard on you because you actually have a solid chance,_ is what Mom would say, and maybe that’s true, but also college – that’s just so far away right now. It might as well be a lifetime.

“Guys, your time is abysmal, ten more, go go go go go!”

Peter runs down the bleachers, pissed. He bumps into Greg’s shoulder and says, puffing, “What time is it?”

“Can’t talk, busy dying.”

“Come on, man.”

Greg shakes the sweat out of his eyes and checks his watch. “Five-fifteen.”

_Fucking bullshit. She’s gonna be so pissed . . ._

_. . . Well – I gave her permission – and – she bailed – on going to Greg’s – so she’s just gotta understand – about this -_

Okay, technically, she had homework to do, and technically, he _offered_ to give her permission to write McClaren back but honestly she doesn’t _need_ it and it’s just a hello, right, so it’s not like it’s a _thing_ because she didn’t even say she would write him back. So it’s _not_ a thing even though now that he’s had some time to think about it he kinda remembers some stuff.

(Like how when they were all kids, he’d go to the tree house after school, and the two of them would be sprawled out there, reading books and chattering in their own little world. Or the middle school formal, when everybody was wondering who was going to ask who and Gen batted her eyelashes at him and said, “ _You know, wouldn’t it be_ so cute _if Lara Jean and John Ambrose would double date with us?_ ”)

And then Coach is _finally_ blowing his whistle, and Peter can’t even collapse into a grateful heap on the grass, because he’s got to get showered _now_ and get to the coffeeshop before Covey kills him. It’s already dark, and if it was him, he’d be pissed, so he’s not going to push the issue – _issues_ – with her. Nope, no way. He’s going to sit back and play the Good Boyfriend and not make a big deal out of her not volunteering with him at Oakwood ( _Belleview?_ With _old people?_ No way . . .), about not going to Greg’s – and he’s definitely, absolutely not gonna make a big deal out of some old friend writing a letter back to her. (Because. Old friends. Past. It’s just a letter. And she never said she’d write back. He appreciates her honesty, is all.) So, no, he’s not going to call her out, and she’ll keep smiling, because it’s what she deserves, after she put up with the hot tub video leaking.

And the other stuff that she has no idea about, and never will.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lara Jean's memory is based on the deleted scene from PSISLY, and from the book.


	17. Dreadful Little Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains light spoilers for the third movie - nothing obvious, but if you're committed to remaining unspoiled until you've seen it, from here on out these chapters will contain references/characters/and situations that lead to the third movie's set up. :) eventually, i will get to the third movie too. i just need to slog through PSISLY first hahaha. :)

“So – like – I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” Lara Jean stuffs some popcorn in her face, eyes set at rapt attention on the screen. She doesn’t mind so much that Peter’s just broken her cardinal rule – no talking during the movie – because she’s seen this version of _Pride and Prejudice_ probably more times than she can count, _and_ it’s educational. Or at least, that’s what she said to convince Peter to watch it in the first place, since they’re reading Jane Austen now in English.

“I don’t get why her best friend married that annoying priest. Talk about a douchebag.”

“She just said why.”

“Yeah, but it’s not right,” Peter insists, from the opposite end of the couch, as he nudges her feet underneath the throw. “She shouldn’t just _settle_.”

“She shouldn’t, but she really doesn’t have a choice,” Lara Jean points out. “None of them did back then.” She sits up, the throw pooling in her lap, and reaches over and taps his knee. “That’s what you should do for the English paper.”

“Do what?” Peter asks, eyes still on the tv.

“Talk about how unfair it is for women in Austenian England!” she exclaims, pointing at the screen. “You could write all about if Charlotte Lucas made the ‘correct’ choice given her situation.”

“Shh!” Peter hisses, not even looking up. “No more school talk. I’m _watching._ ”

Lara Jean throws some popcorn at him. Peter claps a hand over his eyes. “Ow! You got me right in the – ”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry – ” she says, mortified, as she crawls over on the couch to check on him. She grabs his wrist – lifts his hand away from his face – and promptly spots his totally uninjured eye. He blows a raspberry at her and grabs her arm, pulling her forward.

Lara Jean bursts out laughing, and he settles her on top of him. “Say sorry,” he says, smiling up at her.

She kisses the tip of his nose. “Sorry.”

He makes a face. “You can do better than that.”

Her smile turns shy, but she leans down and kisses him softly. “I’m very sorry,” she murmurs, against his mouth, except it comes out more like _Mmmerysowwy_ , which makes them both laugh some more.

His phone starts buzzing. “Ugh,” he says, thumping his head on the arm of the couch. “Gotta go.”

“Is it that late already?” Lara Jean says, surprised.

“Nah,” he says. “Early away game. You coming?”

“Huh?” He’s never asked that before – going to his away games. Not even when they were fake dating. Peter’s eyebrows shoot up at her own confusion, and she stumbles, pushing off of him, “I mean – where is it?”

“Pratum.”

“ . . . Isn’t that by _Salem_?”

“Uh, yeah.” Peter sits up too. “Why?”

“It’s just a little far.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. A little over an hour.”

“Yeah, I dunno . . . I have to get to Belleview tomorrow too, my service shift starts.”

“Well, you could a hitch a ride with Pammy and all of them. They can drop you off. You don’t like Pammy?”

“Pammy’s great, but . . .” Lara Jean hesitates. He looks disappointed. She thinks he looks disappointed. “’All of them’ means, like Emily and Alyssa and they’re all you know – ” _Friends with Gen._ “I dunno.”

“ . . . Okay. It’s cool.”

Lara Jean rubs the back of her neck as he stands up and grabs his shoes and jacket. There’s a shift in the air – decided and sure. Things have been great, ever since their night at the carnival – the dust, she thought, had settled. Now it’s off-kilter again, like someone took their little perfect bubble, sent them upside down, and they’re still being shaken. Even after she swallowed her instinct to ask him about what Gen said about Cardona’s – about asking him to volunteer with her at Belleview.

After deciding _not_ to write John Ambrose McClaren back . . .

_I have to make it up to him,_ she thinks, almost wildly. “So, um, I’ll see you on Sunday then?” she says.

“It’s the Superbowl,” he says, shrugging into his jacket. “The guys are hanging at Trevor’s.”

“Okay,” she replies, nodding.

“You don’t like football,” he says, his glance questioning.

“Well, no time like the present,” she says, brightly.

“Do you know who’s even playing?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

“ . . . Isn’t it about the spirit of the game?”

Peter huffs out a laugh, but then looks at her like he’s got her number. She smiles up at him and says, “What?” She shuffles closer and wraps her arms around his waist. “I’ll bring everybody munchies. I’ll make your favoriiiiiites.”

His eyes light up, eager and childlike, and her grin widens. “Salted caramel?” She nods, very slowly, and he pumps his fist. “You must really love me.”

Lara Jean blinks, so stunned she doesn’t process the dip of her heart until he’s kissed her on the cheek and already turned away, out the door. She stands there, arms crossed against the February night air, and watches him get into the car and drive away.

He’s never said it before. Well, okay, maybe he _has_ because there was the lacrosse field – but he said _in love_ he didn’t say, _I love you._

And neither has she.

It’s too soon for that – they’ve only been dating, like really dating for . . . well, okay, does the ski trip _count_? Because she broke things off right after and it was, like, a hot minute, wasn’t it? Was it a real thing right after New Year? When after New Year?

And besides. She’s too young. He’s too young. What does she know about love?

Lara Jean flops on the couch, stares up at the ceiling. Maybe she should go tomorrow. Home games are easier because she gets to freeze her butt off with Lucas in the bleachers and it’s a short ride home. Do _all_ the girlfriends go to the away games? They definitely all dressed up today at school, blues and yellows, their boyfriends’ jerseys on – their numbers painted on their cheeks. Peter had never even given her his jersey. Should she ask for one?

Does _Gen_ have it?

She rolls onto her stomach, grabbing a pillow for support. She can definitely remember Gen dressing up for the away games.

She heaves a big sigh, turns off the tv. Her head hurts. _Snicker doodles._ Yes, that’s it. A nice, long baking session to clear her head, re-center herself, and stop thinking about little, annoying, digging things. She should think about getting excited for a great day of volunteering at Belleview. She can’t wait to meet Margot’s favorite charge there, Stormy, and the other inhabitants. So what if she’s going alone? It should be interesting.

*

“Here.” Alarmed, Kitty takes the golden snicker doodle from the plate Lara Jean just handed her.

“You made more?” Kitty looks at the stacks of Tupperware in the corner of the kitchen counter.

Lara Jean shrugs, kneeling by the oven, to check the progress of the other trays. “Yeah, so?”

“Because I’m pretty sure you made some Friday, yesterday right after you got back from Belleview, and now today? Overkill much?”

“Yeah, well, I was in a mood,” Lara Jean mutters.

“Well, you should clean up,” Kitty says, nodding at the clock. “Don’t you have a party to get to?”

“What party . . .” The realization hits her and full-blown panic begins to blossom in her chest. “Oh my _god_ I forgot! Oh – the cupcakes. Oh shit! Oh, I don’t have time . . .” She buries her face in her hands.

“Just take the snicker doodles,” Kitty says, munching on one delicately. “Mmm. Pretty good.”

“I’m going to have to,” Lara Jean grits out, putting her hands on her hips. Kitty almost laughs – she must have flour all over her face – so she glares at Kitty, who promptly shuts up and eats her cookie. Annoyed, Lara Jean wails, “God, I don’t know why I said I’d go. I don’t even like football! It’s gonna be torture.”

“So . . . why _are_ you going?”

Lara Jean looks away. She wanted to go because she felt guilty, but now she doesn’t want to go because she even feels _more_ guilty.

_But it’s absolutely nothing. So what if John Ambrose ended up volunteering at Belleview too. It’s absolutely, positively nothing to worry about or even tell . . ._

Except the way he smiled at her and said her name when he walked into the front hall – he _needs_ to give her the letter back, she can’t even remember what she wrote to him, not exactly – just the intense rush of feeling she had, the sense of finally getting it all out on the page – and it’s not freaking _fair_ –

“I’ll get Chris to come with me,” she mumbles, squatting down by the oven again. Her reflection in the oven’s window is pale and worried, and she adjusts her yellow headband, frazzled.

“Right, because she’ll really want to go,” Kitty says, breezing her way out of the kitchen and towards the stairs.

“I really hate you,” Lara Jean calls after her, looking at the mess in the kitchen in despair.

“Meh.”

*

_Chris I need your help._

_Que?_

_Come with me to a Superbowl party._

_. . ._

_. . ._

_Uh no?_

_Chrissy PLEASE._

_You don’t like football! **I** don’t even like football!_

_Please please please please please please please._

_Football is the patriarchy. It’s sexist, racist, misogynistic, need I go on?_

_It might be fun._

_If it’s so fun why do you want me there?_

_To have fun! Please Chris I’ll do anything. I’ll owe you one. I’ll do your nails for a month._

_I don’t do football and I don’t do football parties LJ! Sorry!_

_Come on, Chris. You don’t even have to stay the whole time. It’s just Trevor’s house. I’ll bring extra foot and hand masks. I still got some leftover the last time my grandma went to Korea._

_. . ._

_. . ._

_. . ._

_k_

_!!!!!!!!YAY!!!!! LIFESAVER!!!!_

_Just bring those footmasks, my tootsies are extra flaky this winter._

*

“I can’t believe you convinced me to come to this,” Chris grumbles, as Lara Jean rings Trevor’s front door.

“Well, you said it yourself, your feet need the pampering,” Lara Jean says. She looks askance at Chris, who’s patting her hair rather self-consciously. “What’s wrong?”

Chris jerks her hand away, straightening. “Nothing!”

The door opens, the muffled sounds of yelling guys and the game wafting out from somewhere within the house. Trevor says, “Chr – ?! Uh, hey, LJ.”

“Hey, Trevor,” Lara Jean says, holding up three Tupperwares. “I brought snicker doodles!”

“Sweet,” Trevor says, ushering them inside. “Uh, my parents are upstairs, so there’s no – ”

“That’s fine,” Lara Jean says, trying not to sound so eager. She likes to think she’s gotten used to taking a couple of tepid sips from solos, but with confirmation that tonight she’ll go without the pressure of someone smirking at Peter Kavinsky’s good-two-shoes girlfriend for not going full-throttle in a game of flip cup, she’s definitely relieved.

Trevor, for some reason, looks totally thrown, and waves them towards the basement stairs. It’s an absolute mess, which makes her feel sorry for Mrs. Pike – bits of chips and candy strewn all over the carpet, crushed soda cans randomly perched on end-tables or shelves. The guys – some from the lax team, some of their other buddies from various friend groups – are gathered all around the tv. Then something happens on the screen, Lara Jean doesn’t know what – who even _is_ playing, she never bothered to find out – she never did understand football – and they all stand almost at once, clapping and hooting and hollering. Trevor abandons them to join the fray.

“Positively primeval,” Chris says, unimpressed.

“Sorry,” Lara Jean says, setting down the cupcakes on a side table, next to an empty pizza box.

“Oh, don’t be,” Chris says, flopping down on a two-seater bean bag and gesturing to the empty space. She opens up her purse and pulls out the bottles of nail polish she’d swiped from Lara Jean’s dresser ten minutes ago. “You’re getting to work!”

“After I say hi to – ”

“Yes, yes,” Chris says, imperiously, waving her hand. “Go be beholden to your man.”

Lara Jean rolls her eyes, but not without affection, and skips over to the couch and throws her arms around Peter’s neck from behind. “Hi!” she says, smooching his cheek.

“Hey!” He lifts up his arms and hugs her neck, twisting to peck at her lips. “Where’s my cupcakes?”

She tries not to grimace. “Um, I forgot them.”

“What?! No way!”

“Sorry! I brought snicker doodles.” She tightens her hold. “I missed you.”

_It’s absolutely nothing. Nothing to tell._

Peter pulls away, turns in the couch to look at her fully. “Missed you too.” His mouth screws to the side, like he’s thinking of something.

“What?”

“Nothing. Everything good?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” She smiles down at him.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just, you know – snicker doodles.”

Why does it feel like her smile is frozen? “Just lost track of time.”

Before he can question further, Daniel, sitting next to Peter, turns around in his seat. “Hey LJ.”

“Hey.”

“Some of us are gonna go to Mollie’s after. Wanna come?”

“Um – ” She can feel Peter’s gaze on her, expectant. Both Daniel and Mollie are nice, but the very idea of just jumping from house to house right now leaves her feeling strangely exhausted. Especially since she really didn’t want to come in the first place. “Maybe? We’ll see.”

“Cool.”

Lara Jean gives Peter a quick kiss on the cheek, not really daring to look at the expression on his face. “I’m gonna go hang back with Chris.”

“Chris?” He peers around her body. “You brought Chris?”

“Yup. Why?”

“She doesn’t go to these things,” he says, confused.

She shrugs, playing dumb. “Well, we’re just gonna do pedis.” She practically runs back to the beanbag and flops down next to Chris.

“Everything cool?” Chris asks, shaking a few bottles.

“Yup, absolutely!” Lara Jean says, nodding over-enthusiastically. She pulls out the foot and hand masks from her purse. “Let’s deflake!”

*

“Wow, I can’t believe I fell asleep,” Lara Jean says, yawning, as she unbuckles her seatbelt.

“Well, _I_ can’t believe everybody finished all your snicker doodles,” Peter says, nodding at the empty containers, as he kills the ignition.

“Are you calling my snicker doodles disgusting?” Lara Jean teases.

“No, I’m saying you baked a lot of them,” Peter says, trying not to sound too pointed. If there’s anything he’s learned about LJ, it’s that she spooks easily. “Must’ve been thinking about a lot of stuff.”

She just shrugs. He likes to think he can read her pretty well – her face is always going through something, when she’s watching movies or talking with Kitty or Owen or listening in class or _not_ listening in class. When she’s talking to him. The way her brows dip or lift, how the corner of her mouth twists up or down. This time it’s flat. Like she’s deliberately trying to not show something. Trying.

“I dunno. Just – you know – volunteering at Belleview and school and stuff, I guess.”

He starts to say something again, and she lifts her brows. And he decides not to push it. Because pushing it might lead to a fight and he’s tired of those. It was supposed to be easier, with Lara Jean.

Is.

So instead, he just says, “’Kay,” and pats her hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you in.”

Like always, he kisses her goodnight on the porch. She waits by the door until he drives away – smiles, and waves. He does the same, even though he can’t get rid of this little tickle of unease starting to scratch underneath his skin – fleeting, but increasingly persistent. It’s just freaking snicker doodles.

It’s not like she hasn’t said anything _back_ or whatever . . .

And then, right as he’s making the last turn to meet up with the rest of the guys back at Mollie’s, he gets a phone call – which he ignores, because he was clear. He drew a line in the sand with Gen, and he’s done. He walked away.

But then he gets a text – and another and another – and he’s about to turn off his phone except he sees the preview - and then, something like guilt and then true concern starts to overtake him.

_Peter please._

_Can we talk?_

_I’m not bullshitting you._

_I really need someone to talk to. My parents are splitting up. I don’t know what to do._

“Hey,” he says, when Gen picks up her phone. She’s sobbing quietly. “I’m coming over.”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO I rewatched the third movie last night and i'm still a wreck and i don't think i'll ever recover? and i kinda want to not finish dreadful little things just so i can jump into the third movie? whatever whatever this is me, spiraling.


	18. Valentine

_Tap tap tap_

_Taptaptaptaptap_

_Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap –_

“Will you quit it?” Owen hisses, from the storeroom where he’s doing his homework.

Peter, up at the register, sighs and spins around in his chair, flipping his pen onto the counter in frustration. It’s a slow shift at the store. He’s finished all his homework for the next day. It’s actually the perfect time to write this Valentine Day’s card for Lara Jean – considering it’s tomorrow.

And he can’t get a damn word out.

Peter sighs – threads his fingers behind his head and leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. There’s a cobweb on the light fixture. He wonders how long it’s been there, if the spider who made it is still alive. Which leads to a thought spiral about where the spider might _be_ if it is still alive. Which – makes him want to hit his head on the display case counter.

Maybe there’s still time to do the acapella serenade. He picks up his phone and almost texts Dipti, who’s coordinated this kind of stuff since freshman year, but stops.

Gen’s texted him again.

Peter hesitates, puts down the phone. And tries to brush it aside, go back to thinking about Valentine’s. It’s not Covey’s style - acapella grams. And the thing is, he always hated doing it before – he always had a feeling Gen had just liked the show of it all, to get the likes and the comments when she’d inevitably post the vid on her Instagram. Covey likes grand gestures – but, like, the _private_ kind.

It was so much easier to write those one or two lines on scraps of paper, knowing that though they were the gods honest truth, Lara Jean would never actually read any of them. By the time he managed to cough up the balls to write the last note he’d been bordering on desperate trying to get her to realize what was going on – and it was far from a work of art. He could never write a letter like the one she wrote him. He doesn’t have the guts. He’d played it off cool, when he’d confronted her about the letter on the track, but in reality, he’d been kind of blown away by what she wrote – all that attention to detail about his eyes, how it made her feel looking into them. No one had ever written a letter like that to him before – but Lara Jean had.

Peter doesn’t text Dipti. He opens up the message from Gen.

_Hey. Thanks for the other night._

She’d been a wreck, which was understandable, considering she’d walked right in on a fight with her parents – and bumped straight into his sidechick. She’d been even more distraught than the ski trip. But at least he was there to stop her from drinking – and by the time he’d left, she seemed to get that she shouldn’t be doing that.

_No problem. You doing ok?_ She’d been out of school for the past couple of days.

_Hanging in there. It’s awkward. Dad’s back in the house._

_Ugh. Sorry._ He pauses, wondering if he should say anything more, considering that he told her he was cutting the cord weeks ago. But it feels heartless just to . . . _abandon_ her like this.

It feels like something his dad would do.

_It used to drive me crazy after mom and dad would fight and he’d come back and you’d feel like you’re walking on eggshells._ He stops, then adds the rest, _If you need anything, just let me know._

She sends him a blue heart.

Peter puts down his phone, next to the balls of notebook paper that litter the display counter – and feels, not for the first time, the stab of guilt. Lara Jean would freak out if she knew they were talking . . . on top of everything else.

And there it is – twinkling below the display glass. An oval silver locket, with a pattern of hearts on the face, on a silver chain. She was looking at it, the last time she was in the shop – to tell him she was going on the ski trip after all.

“Mom,” he yells towards the front of the store, where she’s fitting on the new shipment of clothes onto the dressforms in the display window. She doesn’t hear him, so he tries again. “Mom! Mooom! _MOM!!!_ ”

“What?”

“How much is the necklace?”

“What necklace?” Mom calls over, muffled. “This stupid dress won’t hang right – ”

“The necklace in the register display case?”

“It should be in the computer, Peter!”

“I can’t see the tag so I can’t look it up and you have the keys so – ”

“What?”

“I can’t see the tag so I can’t look it up and – ”

“Oh for goodness sake!” he thinks he hears Mom hiss, and then heaves a great sigh and shouts, “There are about ten of them in there, Peter, be more specific!” She walks over, plucking dress pins out the corner of her mouth, and he points to the one. “Ah. Well, it’s $200 and the seller said his price is firm. Who wants to know?”

_Two hundred dollars._ He thinks he can actually feel his stomach bottom out. He’d spent the last chunk of his savings on Cardona’s – the fair was cheap, but it basically wiped everything _but_ his gas money. It’s going to take him a while and a lot of shifts here to save up that much again –

Mom pushes her glasses up into her hair, her gaze shrewd. She takes the loop of shop keys from her apron pocket, moves behind the register, and unlocks the case. “Tell you what,” she says, as she pulls out a little jewelry box from underneath the register. With great, almost exaggerated care, she takes the locket and places it in the box and shuts the lid with a soft snap. “If Mr. Who Wants to Know can find a way to pull up his trig grade to a B, then I think we can strike a deal.” She sets the box down on the counter. Before Peter can react, the door chimes and in comes a customer. “Hi, can we help you?” Mom calls, patting him on the shoulder as she brushes by him.

“Can we make it a B minus?” Peter calls after, trying to cover up his relief with some bravado.

Mom glares over her shoulder at him. “Does Stanford take B minuses?”

“They’re not looking at me for my grades,” he says, unable to stop himself from being a smartass. Her glare hardens and he says, quickly, “B it is,” then turns away to go to the storeroom to stuff the box into his backpack. Wow. Okay. Well – okay, he’ll have to study extra hard for the next few quizzes – but it’ll be worth it. Lara Jean’ll love it. It’s exactly something she’d like – something right out of the films she eats up every movie night, something she’ll wear.

Now if he can only figure out what to write in the damn card. You don’t just give a present like that and only sign your name in a card from Hallmark.

He sits back down in the chair, gives it a whirl until he’s dizzy. As the chair comes to a stop, his gaze rights itself and comes upon the shelf of old books against the east wall. Peter gets up and looks at the titles – he and Owen have had to catalogue them from time to time, but he honestly can’t remember the last time he did it. Some are worn paperbacks, others are the nice leather-bounds with gold lettering, the kind that Barnes & Noble like to imitate. A good chunk of them are by people he’s never heard about – but one name is familiar. They had to read Edgar Allan Poe in freshman English.

Peter picks up the copy and starts thumbing through the pages. He might not have the words to tell Lara Jean how he feels about her – really feels about her – but maybe someone else – an expert – can help.

And besides, the necklace is the real present.

*

Lara Jean tilts her face, trying to make sure her smile is visible over the corner of the folded poem. “There!” Kitty says, showing her the photo. Her little sister managed to perfectly capture the sparkle of the locket.

“Yay, thank you!” She kisses Kitty’s cheek and posts the picture to Instagram. _Love my valentine,_ she captions, then tags Peter. She’s never felt so special, so – so _loved_ before. She’s never gotten jewelry from anyone aside her parents. And no one’s written her a _poem_ before. Peter did both.

She only hopes her card and her cherry turnover were good enough. He seemed to like it though – he practically inhaled the cherry turnover. Maybe her hand-crafted card will get lost in the pile of Valentines from the cheerleaders and dance teams but he gave her this beautiful locket and that wonderful poem, and that should mean something.

She’s still dreamy-eyed, staring at her Instagram and fiddling with the locket around her neck, when Kitty’s voice cuts in, “You’re gonna be late for Belleview.”

“Oh! Oh yeah.” She stands up and starts gathering her things, flustered.

“What’s wrong?” Kitty asks.

“Nothing.” She glances at Kitty, a little mad. If only she hadn’t sent _all_ those letters! Now she has to go to Belleview with John Ambrose McClaren, who might or might not be giving her back her letter today. But there’s no way she can tell Kitty this – who knows what she’ll say, especially to Peter, and – no. Just no. “I just wish you weren’t such a meddler,” she finally says, stomping out the door.

“Uh, you’re _welcome!_ ” Kitty calls, insulted.

*

_Hey Valentine._

Lara Jean puts down her letter to John Ambrose. It’s on the tip of her tongue – well, actually, her fingers – to say something about the poem. In fact, she _should_ say something about the poem. It’s not right that he tried to pass it off as his own.

_It’s not right you still haven’t said anything about –_

“Hi, Valentine,” she says, when Peter picks up his FaceTime. She can tell he’s on his laptop instead of his phone. “What’s up?”

“Studying for this trig quiz,” he says, yawning. “And daydreaming about your cherry turnovers. Please tell me you have leftovers.”

She grins, something like pride suffusing through her. “Of course I do.”

“They’re never gonna replace your cupcakes but they come in a close second.” He pushes some hair off his forehead. “Wanna go out?”

“Didn’t you _just_ say you were studying for your trig quiz?” she asks, turning around in her dresser chair so that she can fold her arm across the back and lean her chin on her forearm.

“I need a break,” he says. “If I have to look at another secant or cotangent I’m gonna throw myself out the window.”

“Don’t,” she giggles.

“So. Rescue me, Covey.”

She looks at the time. “I dunno, it’s late.” It’s Saturday night, she’s in her sweats, and he’ll just want to go to a party . . . “How about we stay in? We still haven’t finished _Pride and Prejudice._ ”

He makes a face. “C’mon, Covey! We can do that any old day. And besides, we still haven’t gotten to _The Fast & the Furious _yet, like you promised.”

“Because we didn’t finish _Pride & Prejudice_!”

He laughs at her affronted expression. “Okay, whatever, we’ll finish it but not tonight, c’mon I just told Max we’d come – ”

“ _We’d?_ ”

“ – And we haven’t seen each other since Friday.”

“Which was yesterday,” she says, smiling despite herself.

“A whole day! I’m always at Oakwood or practice or a game and you’re always at Belleview – ”

She bristles at the mention of Belleview, clucks her teeth. Peter raises his brows in anticipation. “Okay. Let me get dressed.”

*

Lara Jean is pleasantly surprised to find Chris at Max’s. “Why didn’t you tell me –” But then she spots someone tall and lanky and dark-haired in the distance, chumming it up with Peter and their pals, and she says, musingly, “Ah.”

Chris just lifts her brows. “Pure coincidence.”

“Like sawdust and Subway coincidence?”

“Like there’s nothing to see here coincidence,” Chris says, taking a sip out of her solo.

“ _Chris,_ ” Lara Jean exclaims, frustrated at her friend’s refusal to budge. “He brought you flowers! Were you the one who got him the acapella gram?”

“Okay, first of all, it was one flower. One.” Lara Jean snorts. “And second, I can confirm nor deny any grams of the singing kind. Especially one with such horrible taste in music.” Chris snickers into her cup. “I mean, 90s music is even worse than 80s.”

“How would you know it was 90s music?” Lara Jean points out.

Chris’ eyes go wide. “I – uh – saw it on – SnapChat, obvs.”

“Mmmhmm . . .”

“Ugh, bye,” Chris says, walking off. Lara Jean just grins after her, shaking her head. It’s funny – in some ways, she can see herself and Peter in them, the whole in denial thing. The only difference is that they’re prickly.

Peter saunters over and gives a kiss on the cheek before handing her a solo. Lara Jean takes a tentative sniff – it’s just Coke – and takes a snip. “I’ve been sent,” he says, winking at her conspiratorially, “because Jake’s new girlfriend wants to ask you where you got your necklace.”

Lara Jean beams up at him, happily noticing how proud he seems, twisting the locket around its chain. “Well, did you tell her it was from my Valen – ” Two girls are walking down the glass staircase, headed into the thick of the party. Emily – and Gen. “ – tine.” She doesn’t miss how nearly every guy’s head turns to watch them go – how Genevieve’s tight dress makes her look. Confident and sure and sexy. Suddenly, the extra care Lara Jean put into finding the cute blouse and shorts and tights she’s wearing seems rather childlike in comparison.

“I did, but she’s from another school, I thought maybe you’d want to talk to her,” Peter is saying, but Lara Jean really isn’t registering, because Emily has veered off to the kitchen and Gen is headed straight towards them.

“Hey,” she says.

“Uh, hey,” Peter says, startled. “Good to see you.”

Lara Jean just looks at her, frozen.

Gen looks up at Peter. “Just wanted to say hi,” she says. To the both of them, she says, “See you around,” and walks away. A random guy she passes checks her butt out as she saunters past.

“So, Aubrey – ”

“What?” Lara Jean asks, confused.

Peter looks at her as if she’s gone crazy. “Aubrey – Jake’s girlfriend?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Lara Jean says, distracted and disinterested. She takes Peter’s hand and lets him lead the way, wondering why the sense of unrest, like she’s being shaken and is still spinning, just won’t go away, just keeps coming back.

She tries to be nice, to talk with Aubrey – who really does seem like a nice girl – and the rest of the guys, and it’s easier to do it with Peter right next to her, his arm over her shoulders, and his laughter a warm and familiar tremble against her side, but it starts to get a bit much, and when he and the others annoyingly decide to play flip cup ( _“Go on, you can go.” “Are you sure?” “Yeah, positive.” “Come with me.” “No – no, I’m hungry. What? Go ahead, go. It’s fine.” “ . . . All right. Are you cool?” “Yes. Go.”_ ) she says she needs a snack and just sneaks off and sits on top of the bar counter, alone and thinking.

She thought all she had to worry about tonight was confronting him about the poem. But now, for some reason she can’t stop thinking about the hot tub, of all things. Except for the hot tub – they haven’t really _done_ anything else. They’ve kissed, of course – many times. Many times in private, when her sister is upstairs or his mother isn’t at home, and there are times when she’ll press up against him and feel like she wants more than just his hands on her waist or along her spine – or wonder if he’d like it if she’d touch somewhere other than his back or his neck or his hair. But the thing is, she’s never, ever . . . she’s never even seen one, _he’s_ never touched her other than . . . other than that night in the hot tub, where she could barely feel the gentle scrape of the tip of his thumb, under the curve of her breast. Which – she’d liked, because it was ticklish, but not too ticklish – and it felt – _hot_ – but since then . . . she just isn’t sure she wants him to do more, if _he_ wants to do more.

Okay, she’s pretty sure he wants to do more, because sometimes he’ll kiss her so breathless, she feels like she’ll could get lost there, tip over the edge into something indescribable and fathomless – and when they break apart and he has to drive her home or he has to go because of curfew, he gets this look in his eyes, like he wants to say something, like he could feel that part too, that precipice of _if_. . . but he just . . . _doesn’t_ say it, for some reason.

She just isn’t sure.

And Gen would be sure, wouldn’t she? Because Gen can just walk into a party in a tight dress and high heels and flip her hair and a dozen boys will look up and forget their first names. Because Gen – and _Peter_ – have actually –

Lara Jean sighs, and looks around the party – at Peter, enjoying himself playing flip cup, at Gen and Emily posing for selfies – and settles on Chris and Trevor on the stairs, drinking together. _Well, at least someone’s happy,_ she thinks, with a small smile.

“What?” Lucas says, coming up to her, in surprise at the sight of the two of them.

“Yeah,” she says, grinning at him knowingly.

“Ooookay,” he says, leaning on the counter next to her. And she almost sighs with relief, because lovely, dear Lucas – who else can unload on, in a time like this?

*

She should really, really tell John Ambrose about Peter. It doesn’t sit right, him not knowing – although _why_ it doesn’t sit right . . . well, she can’t really say. He keeps leaving her openings, and she almost gets it out, but –

It should be okay. Things _are_ okay. She and Peter are on the same page about sex, now, at least. They hashed things out and he respected her decision and besides _that_ everything else is cool. Honestly. They’ll have the treehouse party. She’ll invite the old gang – minus Gen, of course – and it’ll be fun, to dip in a little bit of nostalgia for the good old days, when everything was much more simple, and the most dramatic thing that ever happened was in the pages of books shared between . . . friends.

“See you Friday then,” John Ambrose says, as they split up in the parking lot.

“Of course,” she says, and as he turns around, something falls out of his messenger bag. “Oh, wait – ” She bends down and grabs the paperback. “Jane Austen,” she says, startled.

“Yeah, we’re reading it for lit,” he says, stuffing _Sense & Sensibility _back into his bag.

“It’s one of my favorites,” she says.

“Yeah, it’s good, I guess,” John Ambrose says. “Think I prefer _Pride & Prejudice _though. If I had to pick.”

For some reason, this makes her cheeks turn red and she swallows, hard. And for some reason, this makes John Ambrose’s smile melt a little more.

“See you on Friday,” she says, quietly, and quickly dashes into her car to escape.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lolololol wow i hate everything about writing these parts? let me just get to the third movie quickly please ...


	19. Handle With Care

“Um ...”

“What?” Lara Jean smiles up at him. “Sorry they’re not salted caramel cupcakes. I just figured chocolate chip cookies would be easier to get to school. Didn’t want frosting everywhere.”

Peter looks at the Tupperware, wrapped in gigantic blue and yellow ribbons, and looks back at her. He seems to decide something. “They’re great,” he says, smiling, and kisses her on the cheek. He slings his arm around her shoulders and together they stroll over to the cafeteria.

After they’ve grabbed their lunch, Greg waves them over. Lara Jean frowns as they sit down. Keisha is dressed like a rally girl. And so is Pammy - she’s even got Darrell’s number on her cheek. In fact ... all the girlfriends at the table are dressed in blue and yellow today.

Except her. She’d been tying herself in knots wondering how to tell him about the party, and she’d totally forgotten.

She glances over at Peter. A couple of guys are calling dibs on some of the cookies and he’s laughing them off, holding the Tupperware away from grabbing hands. _Did he want me to ...?_ she wonders.

“So do you need a ride to the game?” Pammy asks her.

“The game?” Lara Jean blinks, clueless, at her.

“Yeah. I’m heading up with Keisha and Alyssa. Oh, and Emily. I’ve got room.”

“Oh - um - I’m actually not -“ Lara Jean falters, glancing at Peter. He’s not paying attention, digging into his lunch. Or at least she thinks he isn’t. He’s never asked if she was going. And it didn’t occur to her _to_ go. It’s a school night.

She’d thought the cookies would be the perfect way to wish him good luck. That they’d be enough.

“No, I’m actually not going,” Lara Jean blurts out.

“Got other plans?” Pammy asks, biting into her sandwich.

Lara Jean quickly stuffs a baby carrot in her mouth and nods. She catches Peter glancing at her. The carrot seems to dry up in her mouth. “What?” she asks, after she swallows.

“Nah, nothing,” he says, quickly.

She takes a sip of water. “Um, yeah,” she says, to Pammy, but doesn’t say what. Because she actually doesn’t have plans.

For the rest of lunch she and Peter don’t really talk and she wonders if she did something wrong. But when the bell rings he still takes her hand and walks her to bio and she notes that he’s already eaten two cookies, so she just tries to concentrate on that and this octopus they’re about to dissect.

And artfully broaching the topic of the time capsule party, of course.

*

“They’re talking, I guess,” Gen says, leaning against the locker next to Peter’s. “But I dunno. Sometimes – sometimes I think it’s better if she doesn’t forgive him. Cuts the cord, you know?”

“I hear ya,” Peter says. “The back and forth can be brutal.” He shuts the door, spins the lock.

Gen shrugs. “You going to hangout at Blake’s?”

Peter shakes his head, checking his phone. His last text to Covey, sent to her just minutes ago as she rushed out of school, asking if she wanted him to bring anything, has gone unanswered. “Nah, going to this thing for LJ at the tree house at 4.”

“Tree house? Like, the Roberts’ tree house?” Gen tilts her head, half-smiling as if remembering. “God, I remember hanging out there all the time – what’s going on there?”

Peter slides his phone into his back pocket. “Uh – nothing – she’s just having this thing there – for – you know, the old crew.”

He starts walking towards the exit. Gen follows, arms crossed. “Like the old crew old crew?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah. Guess so.”

“So, like – Trevor and Chrissy and John Ambrose McClaren?”

“Yeah.” Peter pushes the fire door open, trying to make sure he’s not scowling. The fact that Covey never told him she’s been volunteering with him for weeks until two days ago is still eating at him. Like – she _said_ she didn’t write him back, but that’s awfully coincidental . . . maybe she actually did? Maybe she called him to volunteer with her? She told him about McClaren writing her back the day of the service fair – did she know when she signed up he’d be there already?

“Huh. John McClaren. Haven’t seen him in a while.” As they walk down the concrete steps into the parking lot, Gen says, musingly, “Guess my invite must’ve gotten lost?”

Peter gives her a look, as they reach the bottom of the steps. It could be his imagination, but she looks a little stung. But if he says no, don’t come, it makes LJ look like a bitch. If he says yes, of course you’re invited, Lara Jean might actually kill him.

“Yeah, guess so,” he says, non-committal. Gen bites the inside of her cheek, annoyed, and he says, frustrated himself, “Ah, come on. Why would she invite you after you posted that video?”

“I said I was sorry,” Gen says, petulant.

“To _me,_ not to her,” Peter points out.

“So, you tell her from me,” Gen says. Which makes Peter huff, because – _that’s not how apologies work, Gen, god_ – but also – he really, really can’t. “Besides, I still haven’t heard one from her.”

“For what?” Peter asks, confused, because he told her, a million times already – LJ had no idea she was coming down to the tub, it wasn’t like she deliberately got in there to flaunt it in her face – but Gen’s phone rings and she pulls it out of her backpack.

“Ugh, mom,” she sighs. “She’s always on me for seeing this therapist.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should,” Peter says.

“Not you too,” she says, heading towards her car. “Anyway, see you there. It’ll be cool. Johnny was so adorable back then. He had the _cutest_ crush on LJ.” And then she presses her phone and says, “Mom? Yeah, I actually have plans today . . . no, I don’t think seeing Dr. Paulson is a priority.”

He’s so surprised he doesn’t actually have time to say, “Wait, what?” before she’s out of earshot.

*

_Hey. You sure you don’t need me to bring anything?_

_No, I’m good. Thanks!_

_K do you want a lift?_

*

“What are you doing?”

Lara Jean huffs, wiping sweat from her brow, as she finally drags up the last of the outdoor seat cushions from the basement. “Gathering party supplies,” she says, throwing the final two onto the stack on the dining room floor.

“What party?” Kitty asks, peering over the edge of the couch with curious eyes.

“The party I am hosting with some friends,” Lara Jean says carefully. Too much information makes Kitty suspicion. Too little information makes her even more suspicious. And she’s had enough with her kid sister’s life-ruining meddling. In fact, without her meddling, she wouldn’t even be hosting this party! Because she’d be blissfully unaware of John Ambrose McClaren! And Peter! But who’s counting?

“Here?”

“God no. No, elsewhere.” She starts stacking the cushions. The oven alarm dings, and she rushes over to grab the cupcakes and put them on the cooling rack.

“Elsewhere where?” Kitty says, skipping over to the island. She reaches for a cupcake.

“Stop, they’re not for you!” she says, swiping at Kitty’s hand.

“Gosh,” Kitty says, insulted. “Where’s the party?”

Lara Jean goes to the pantry, searching for plastic utensils and paper plates. “The Roberts’ tree house.”

“Tree house? Huh. Who’s coming?”

Lara Jean pauses. There’s no way Kitty would remember the names on the letters, right? It was months ago. “Peter, Trevor, Chris, and John Ambrose.” In a panic, she remembers she left her letter to John Ambrose in her desk drawer – and his letter, back to her, on top of it. “Be right back,” she exclaims, and rushes upstairs to find a better hiding place for them. God forbid Kitty goes snooping in her room and – and – well, they’re _nothing_ but she just doesn’t like someone invading her privacy.

(And telling her boyfriend.)

Rushed, she stomps around, finally settling on a shoebox and stuffing the shoebox into her empty rolling suitcase – and then stuffing _that_ in the furthest corner of her closet, behind her long dresses. Then she takes a minute or two to sufficiently compose herself before heading down the stairs to whip up the peanut butter frosting. She wants to get them perfect.

She’s placing the chocolate chips on the first batch when Kitty stomps into view. “Chocolate peanut butter cupcakes?” Kitty asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. And before she flounces away, she says, almost accusingly, “Peter prefers salted caramel.”

*

_Already getting in the car I’m fine._

_You sure? You’re on the way for me._

_I’m good I’ve packed up and everything._

_. . ._

_. . ._

_I can help you repack._

_(I’m driving with Do Not Disturb While Driving turned on. I’ll see your message when I get where I’m going. I’m not receiving notifications. If this is urgent, reply “urgent” to send a notification through with your original message.)_

*

Honestly, except for that one, hot minute Gen appeared and he’d felt Covey’s gaze go cold and hard on him, Peter finds it remarkably ironic that he doesn’t actually care his ex showed up after all. Because after everybody climbs into the tree house, he notes, almost with grim vindication, how McClaren plops his ass straight down next to Lara Jean.

“What?” Lara Jean whispers at Peter.

“Absolutely nothing,” Peter says, casually, turning his head away. He catches Gen looking at the both of them, mouth smirked knowingly.

“Oh, I brought cupcakes,” Lara Jean says, right after they’re done passing the pizza boxes around.

“Fantastic,” Chris says, opening the container before anyone else has the chance to. “What flavor?”

“Aw, you _made_ them,” McClaren says, smiling fondly at LJ as he takes one.

“Um, chocolate peanut butter,” LJ answers Chris, blushing.

Peter glares at the platter. They’re all chocolate peanut butter, in fact.

“Want one?” Covey asks, picking up one to give to him.

“No, thanks,” Peter says, grabbing a slice of pizza instead. She looks a little hurt when he says it, but he just takes another bite of the pizza, even though it burns the roof of his mouth.

And it’s a bad burn, the kind where your tongue keeps finding the spot repeatedly afterwards, and he’s already annoyed and bordering on pissed by the time they open up the time capsule. And then Gen makes the comment about the baseball – seriously, what the hell is she playing at, that happened ages ago – but then she has to go and talk about football and like _what._ Lara Jean hates football. She fell asleep during the freaking Superbowl! And the Seahawks? Seriously? All their fans just jumped on the bandwagon.

So – ok – the stutter comment isn’t his finest moment – but he’s just really confused too. If someone had asked him a few years ago, when they were all in middle school together, he’d have said that John was a nice dude – not the kind to go creeping on someone else’s girlfriend. But he doesn’t even rise to the bait when Peter insults him. So that can only leave one thing.

And so, there’s really only one way to test his theory. From the genuine shock – and embarrassment – on McClaren’s face – and from the way Lara Jean can’t meet his own gaze, scratching her temple nervously, Peter knows.

Lara Jean never told him.

*

The thing is, she _cares._ Of course she cares. She’s twisting herself up in knots, caring so much. Can’t he see that?

Doesn’t he _know_?

“How do you know if you’re in love?” Lara Jean asks, after she gets back from the party – after she’s put everything away, and crawled into bed, and called her sister, an entire world away.

Margot yawns. “You know,” she says, simply. “Why? Do you think you’re in love with Peter?”

Lara Jean lies on her side, underneath the duvet. Underneath here, she can pretend she’s Lizzie and Margot’s Jane, and they’re gossiping like in the movie.

“I’m sixteen,” she replies, just as simply. Even though – that’s it, isn’t it? She doesn’t know. She gets this buzz in her head and in her chest, and suddenly she thinks she can’t _breathe_ anymore because she’s flying so high . . . and then just as sudden, she’s being tossed and turned around in uncertainty, wondering about tree houses glinting in the summertime sun, wondering about ifs and possibilities.

And she still hasn’t said _it_ , not in her head. Not out loud. Not to Peter . . .

“Mmmhmm,” Margot muses.

“Were you in love with J-Josh?” She stumbles over his name. They haven’t really talked about him since Christmas. And while they see each other at school and around town, and while Lara Jean would say they’re cool with each other now, things have changed between her and Josh. It makes her wistful, but she doesn’t know the way to navigate back to the place they once were – or even if she wants to.

Margot doesn’t seem to notice her hesitancy. “Yes,” she says. “I mean, for high school.”

Yes. For high school.

She’s in high school.

“Is everything okay with you and Peter?”

Lara Jean pauses. “Yeeeees?” She sighs. “It’s just – we’ve been . . . anyway, we talked about it.” (Sort of.) “We’re okay.” (She thinks.) Then quickly, she asks, “What about you? And this new guy?”

Margot gives her a knowing look, but she’s thankful her big sister decides to play along. “Oh, new guy is old guy.”

“Really?” Lara Jean giggles. She couldn’t have imagined Margot like this, as little as a few months ago. A _new_ new guy already. “What his naAaAAame?”

Margot rolls her eyes. “No, I’m not saying anything, not yet,” she says, but she’s blushing.

She smiles softly, glad for the distraction – the chance to breathe. _So this one is special._ “Okay. So how’s school . . .”

*

“What the hell was that about?”

Gen raises a single brow before she buries herself back into her locker, searching for her textbooks. “What the hell was what about?”

Peter scoffs. “That wasn’t cool of you showing up like that to Lara Jean’s party.”

“You mean Lara Jean’s and John Ambrose’s party.” Gen fluffs her hair and closes her locker door, smirking. “Aren’t they super cute? You kinda wanna smoosh their faces together. God, when we were in middle school LJ was non-stop obsessing over him, totally a broken rec – ”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Look. I told you already to stop - _digging_ at her like that.” He ignores the uncomfortable dive his stomach did at the mention of McClaren.

“Why?” She tilts her head at him. “She’s _obviously_ playing you. Just looking out for you, PK.”

“No, we talked it over, we’re fine.” He thinks. He hopes. Whatever. He glares at Gen. “I already told you. Just stop trying to get to her, okay?” She purses her lips and looks away. “Oh, like that baseball story? Come _on._ Look, I know I’m hot and all – ” That makes her roll her eyes, and snicker, and he laughs too, but then he says, seriously, “Gen, come on. You even said you’re not interested anymore. I don’t get it. I said I was sorry. All right? I never should’ve told you to come to the tub. But you gotta – ” He sighs, and leans against the row of lockers. “Just stop taking it out on her. The video was bad enough. You wanna come for me, fine, I get it. Just stop it with LJ.”

“Well, I _still_ haven’t heard an apology from her.”

“Don’t you think posting a sex video of us miiiiight put a damper on any kind of apology?” Peter points out. “I told you before. She didn’t know. She had _no idea_ you were coming.”

“Yeah, right,” Gen says, after a moment, but she doesn’t seem so convinced now. “And anyway, that wasn’t the apology I was talking about.”

Peter gives her a questioning look – she’s said that before – but she doesn’t say anything more. They have different classes but it’s down the same hall. As they shoulder their way through, he asks, “So ... anything new with ..?”

She shakes her head, mouth pinched. “No. Just the fights are getting worse. He says he’s not seeing her anymore, she doesn’t believe him, blah blah blah . . .”

“Maybe you should – you know – talk to somebody?”

Gen shakes her head, resolute. “No. Like, no way. Too embarrassing.”

The bell rings, and the crowd begins to thin out rapidly. Peter gives her a final nod before sliding into English.

“Hey,” he says, tugging at Covey’s side braid. She looks up, almost startled. “Ha. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she says, quickly, her gaze out the classroom door and her brows knitted.

She can probably see Gen walking away. Did she seem them talking to each other?

He almost says something, to reassure her. But he doesn’t want to start another fight again - not after the one at the tree house, which had made him, and Lara Jean, feel like shit - and especially not right before class. It had bothered him that _she_ was bothered by the lack of singing Valentine – he’d thought she loved the necklace. She said she loved it, and she wears it every day. And if she’s still bothered by the accidental plagiarism, then why didn’t she tell him flat out in the car, like she could’ve?

(Why did she go and start inviting McClaren to things – hanging out together, alone . . . Maybe that’s why she’s never said it back . . . )

It’s like she keeps wanting to say something, and doesn’t – and now he’s got to do the same, to keep up with her . . . to keep up with everything _he’s_ done, and has been doing – just keep going . . .

He’d told her it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But what do you when you’re in the mouse wheel? Nothing, but to keep going. So he doesn’t say anything, and when the bell rings again, the expression on Lara Jean’s face shifts to something a little more like normal, so he decides that it’s best not to do anything at all.

Which, he supposes not much later when the shit inevitably hits the fan, was not the first of many mistakes.

*

Lara Jean snaps the lid on the Tupperware and walks over to the front door to where Peter’s sliding on his jacket. “Here you go,” she says, handing him the container full of extra salted caramel cupcakes.

“Ugh, I’m so stuffed,” he groans, and then quickly adds, snickering, “I will make the sacrifice.”

She giggles, then checks over her shoulder. Dad and Trina and Kitty are still bustling back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of their Fakesgiving dinner. “Let me walk you out,” she says, slipping on her coat.

After she closes the front door, they sit on the front porch steps. Lara Jean grabs his hand and lifts his arm over her shoulders, tucking herself against his side. Peter kisses her forehead and rubs her upper arm, setting the Tupperware on his lap. “So, Mrs. Rothschild seems nice,” Peter says, after a while.

“She is. She really is.” She swallows, and says, “I thought it might be weird – you know, having her over – talking about my mom. But it really wasn’t.” She pauses, and says, softly, “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” He squeezes her, tight.

Lara Jean looks at him. “You think your mom will start dating again?” Peter makes such a disgusted face that she bursts into laughter, and he does too. “Oh, come _on_!”

“I mean, I _guess,_ ” Peter says, eventually. “Just – like – don’t ever mention it to me in my presence. Ever.” Lara Jean giggles and pokes his side, digging. He squirms, but she grabs fast to his arm still around her shoulders. “Ah! No fair, I’ve got the cupcakes. Don’t mess with the cupcakes!”

“For the sake of the cupcakes, I will stop,” Lara Jean says, seriously. She made it a special point to bake them for tonight. Ever since the time capsule party at the tree house, it feels like they’ve both been very extra special careful around each other. It’s been a weird week.

But she thinks she finally got it figured out, this girlfriend thing. When it’s just the two of them and no one else, moments like this – it’s honestly perfect, this sense of oncoming peace. Glitter is falling around them, but it’s wonderful and settling. It’s magic.

Saturday’s an away game. She can’t go because of Belleview. But she’ll show up to the send-off, and she’ll dress up. She already purchased all the supplies – hair ribbons, blue eyeliner for cheek-painting, and she bought a lax tank top from the school store yesterday.

“Gotta go,” Peter says, getting up. “Trig quiz tomorrow.”

“Look at you,” she says, playing with the collar of his jacket. “Acting like an all-star student-athlete. What gives?”

He pulls a little bit on the chain on her locket. “No reason,” he says. He sets the locket against her collarbone, trails a finger along the chain. She shivers. “Hey – I really like that you’re always wearing this.”

The way he says it – so soft and gentle, makes her heart thump and flutter wildly. “LJ, I . . . I know things have been . . .” He looks a little nervous, and she stares up at him, confused. “Anyway – I . . . I-I lo –“ He stops, and then shakes his head. “I’m glad you like it.”

Lara Jean shakes her head at him, confused and wondering. She doesn’t _just_ like it . . . doesn’t he understand that? “Peter, I love it,” she says. “I’ll always love it.”

He smiles, almost relieved, and as she kisses him softly goodnight, still wondering, she hopes he’ll be surprised when she comes to the rally. That she can show him she cares.

*

He gets the text in the middle of breakfast. Even though he has to go to an away game – even though Coach told him yesterday there’s a chance some recruiters will be in Gresham, he heads over. Gen is huddled on the curb before her house, arms crossed. Though it’s unusually warm for a March in Oregon, she’s shivering.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down next to her.

“Hey.” She hugs her knees to her chest. “So, yeah. It’s official. They’re done.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, gruffly, and means it.

“I know.”

They sit there together for a long while, watching the occasional car go by. He remembers, viscerally, what it was like when his mom sat him and Owen down at the kitchen table and explained that Dad was moving out. Owen had cried, because he was still little then. But he was fourteen and held it together until the house was dark and he was in bed and did the same.

Eventually, he asks, “Have you thought about it?”

“I already said no,” she grumbles.

“Might help,” he says, kindly. “Not just – you know, for you. Like, your mom.”

She takes a deep breath, chews on her lip. “I dunno. Maybe. God, this sucks.” And then she starts to cry, and he puts his arm around her shoulders and tries to soothe her as best he can.

But then his phone rings, and he curses, because he’s got to get back to the house and grab his gear and get to the game. He’s really freaking late. “Sorry, Gen, I gotta – ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hands and mutters something about her mascara as they both stand up. “Hey. Thanks. I mean it. I know I’ve been – you know, a bitch about things – but thank you.”

He hugs her, then pulls away to look at her. “It’ll be okay,” he says, before he leaves, too rushed to get back and get to the game in time to see Chris’ car drive by.

-tbc-


	20. Girl Code

Ironically, he plays the best damn game of his life.

Maybe it’s because he chooses very deliberately to not think about anything else but the game – Gresham’s defensemen, barreling in on him – concentrating on his accuracy when shooting – mixing it up low and high – and running.

Running, running, running, like it might actually kill him if he stops.

Coach takes him out with five minutes left in the fourth quarter.

“ _What?_ No way, Coach.”

Coach slaps his back. “Pete, we’re killing them out there thanks to you – let’s not embarrass them. Come on.”

“ _Coach_ – I want to – ” But Harrison is jogging onto the field, and he has no choice but to collapse on the end of the bench, utterly exhausted. He rips off his helmet and takes several deep breaths, trying to force air back into his lungs. His stomach is roiling, and there are stars exploding in the corners of his vision. Breathe.

Behind him, in the away stands the crowd is screaming, stomping their feet. Peter takes a drink from his water bottle and searches the crowd for a pretty, familiar face, hair in ribbons and his number on her cheek. Maybe – maybe she didn’t mean it. Maybe she came after all and –

_Maybe that’s the way it should be._

She meant it. Jesus fucking Christ. Peter wipes his face with his towel, glares at the grass. The picture looked bad – but her putting two and two together about the hot tub – about the video – that he lied how many times now . . . god . . .

The whistle blows. Behind him, the crowd roars, and the guys on the field celebrate. He doesn’t join in – just collects his things and heads not to the away team locker room. When he’s done showering and packing up, he checks his phone.

Nothing.

He considers texting her. It’s early – she should be at Belleview –

At Belleview. With McClaren.

Peter slams the locker door shut and stalks out the locker room, headed for the bus. He just needs to get home. That’s all.

“Hey, Pete.” Coach jogs up to him before he can find sanctuary. “Come here.”

“Ah, Coach, uh, sorry about earlier – but I’m – ”

Coach waves his hand, claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, kid. Listen, Pete. A recruiter came from Stanford. He wants to talk to you and your mom. Did she come?”

Peter blinks at him, barely registering what he just said. “Uh – no – she couldn’t – she had work – ” _This is crazy._

“That’s fine. Come on.”

“What do you mean, come on?”

“I mean, come on, he wants to talk to you.” Peter stumbles along after him, patting down his hair self-consciously. Shouldn’t he be dressed up for this? But before he knows it he’s standing before a tall guy in a sweater and jeans. He looks like he could be any one of the parents attending the game, except Peter sees it – a clipboard, with the Stanford logo on the back.

The guy – Mr. Molina – is talking to him about the game – something about how impressed he was – what he could and should be working on – Peter’s barely listening, his mind whirling back to the game and what happened before the game and now this, Jesus Christ what a day – and then Mr. Molina says, “I’d still like to see you play again, my schedule is a little full but sometime before this season ends. Here’s my card. Have your dad call me if he has any questions.”

“It’s not my dad,” Peter says, a little numbly, as he pockets the card.

“Pardon, son?”

Peter shakes himself out of it. “It’s just my mom.” He licks his lips, starts again. “My mom and me. And my little brother.”

Mr. Molina just laughs it off. “Well, give that card to your mom, kid. Tell her I’d be happy to answer any questions. And hey, if your little brother is half as good as you, maybe I’ll be talking to him too in a couple of years.” He shakes Peter’s hand, and grins, friendly and toothy. Peter tries to smile back but his face feels like glass. “You played a great game, son. You should be proud.”

_Proud._ Peter heads back to the bus, already filling up, and collapses in the nearest empty seat. He leans his forehead against the window, the coolness soothing. He can breathe again, but he still feels like the world is spinning, uside down, like he needs to throw up.

_Yeah, right._

*

“I’ll kill him,” Chris sneers, as they walk to their cars. “I will rip off his nutsack and put it in a blender and serve it to him raw.”

“Chris,” Lara Jean mumbles, sniffling. She can barely believe what just happened. Her hands are shaking.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Chis says, worried.

“I drove,” she replies, numbly. “We’d just have to come back to get the car – I don’t want to tell my Dad – I’ll be fine. A-and, I have to go to Belleview.”

“Eff that!” Chris declares. “Give me your phone.” Too upset to do anything but comply, Lara Jean hands it over. “What’s it under?”

“What’s what under?”

“Belleview, girl, it’s not in your contacts.”

“D-dorothy,” Lara Jean stutters. “It’s under Dorothy.” She can’t believe he just _left_ like that. She can’t believe she just told him to leave like that. She can’t believe –

She’s vaguely aware of Chris ranting about Gen (“Always taking shit that doesn’t belong to her! Acting she’s like she should get everything and anything. Ever since middle school. Evil, obnoxious bitch!”), then calling Dorothy to let her know Lara Jean is not feeling well and won’t be coming. She’s too focused on the steadily rising swell of pain deep in her stomach, threatening to overtake her.

The thing that _kills_ her about this – is that she used to think about that night, in the hot tub, with a certain amount of embarrassment, but also – pride. Yeah, it got plastered all over the school and Instagram, and it was humiliating, seeing the comments and hearing the whispers and the judgey looks. But she walked straight into that tub. She made that choice to answer that invitation in his eyes, all by herself.

Now – was he really being protective of her, when he insisted they get out of the tub to dry off? Or was he worried Gen had spotted them? Did he really want to drink hot chocolate by the fire afterwards? The warm sense of fondness – of being protected, of being _safe_ – with him, with Peter – has just evaporated, like it was never there in the first place. It was all a lie.

And that must mean everything else was just – nothing. Because nothing else that happened afterwards would have happened, if Gen had come down first.

She really _was_ just second best, after all …

“Thanks,” Lara Jean sniffs, when Gen hands her back her phone. “I’m just gonna go home.”

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to – ”

“I’m sure,” she says. “I just really want to be alone, right now.”

She takes the drive slowly, mostly because her hands keep shaking. When she finally gets home, she trudges upstairs, intending to go straight to bed, even though it’s not even the afternoon. But then she catches herself in her dresser mirror – blue and yellow ribbons, face paint glaring over her grey cheeks. She rips off the ribbons and she scrubs her face until the 15 disappears, until her skin turns red.

Then she lies down in bed and finally lets herself cry. When she’s finally exhausted herself, she turns herself onto her side, looking at one of the last pictures they all took with Mom. It’s one of her favorites. Mom looked so pretty in it, so happy. Dad took it.

A few weeks later, she died.

_She walked right out . . . she broke all our hearts . . ._

_. . . He broke my heart . . ._

“I miss you, Mom,” she whispers, lonely and aching. “I wish you could tell me what to do.”

*

_LJ, Dad is worried._

_Lara Jean if you want to talk, call me. I don’t care about the time difference._

_Will you at least promise to try and go to school on Monday?_

_I love you sis. Please be ok._

*

Trevor Pike is about to have a pretty terrible Monday.

At least, that’s the general sense of things when he closes his locker door only to find his kinda-sorta-not-really-but-sometimes girlfriend waiting for him on the other side, big blue eyes narrowed.

“You,” Chris snarls, stabbing his chest with a finger. “Did you know?”

“Huh? Know what?” he asks. “Also, _ow._ ”

“Don’t play dumb and cute with me,” she says, furious. “You knew Kavinsky was cheating on LJ, didn’t you? Huh? And you!” Stab. “Didn’t!” Stab. “Tell!” Stab, stab. “Me!” Stab stab _stab_.

“What?!” Trevor gapes at her. “First of all, no, I didn’t know, because he didn’t tell me, and second of all, no, I didn’t know, because there’s no way he would, and third of all – so you _do_ think I’m cute?”

“Invoking the bro code is really disgusting, Trevor,” she snaps, ignoring him. “He’s back with Gen. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“What? Are you tripping?”

“Yeah, and what about this?” Chris shoves her phone in his face. “That is not the embrace of two exes!”

Trevor glares at her. “Right, that’s actually the embrace of two friends.” Although – okay – looks suspicious. Objectively. Especially after all that tree house drama.

“Whatever. You guys are all the same,” Chris says, annoyed. She brushes past him, shaking her head. “Should’ve known better.”

“Hey,” Trevor says, alarmed at how she sounded at the last bit. “Hey, Chris.” But she doesn’t even give wave him off, just pushes through the crowd headed to homeroom. Pissed and worried, he heads to bio – the aquarium is today, and everyone who’s in Mr. Bezdek’s class has to report to bio instead of homeroom.

It’s so stupid. Chris had wanted to keep things on the down low – and he’d agreed with her, because her best friend is dating his best friend, and yes, things could have the potential to get awkward. And now things _have_ gotten awkward, apparently – like _what the hell_ Kavinsky! – and instead of being mature about it she’s flouncing off like it’s _his_ freaking fault.

He walks into bio, scanning the room. He sees LJ up at the front, sitting by herself and staring at the chalkboard listlessly – and there’s Kavinsky, sitting on top of one of the tables in the back, leg jiggling. Trevor taps him on the shoulder, hissing, “Yo,” before sliding into the chair in front of Peter. “What the hell’s going on?”

He doesn’t look up. Trevor snaps his fingers in front of his face. “You there?”

Peter jumps, wipes his face. “Uh, yeah, sorry.”

Trevor looks at him, and then past him, at LJ. “Okay, look, I don’t know what’s going on, and I actually don’t wanna know what’s going,” he says. “But I entered into an extremely busted agreement to continue what’s actually a farce of a relationship not only for my sanity, but as a favor to you. In conclusion: go fix things.”

Peter stares at him like he’s grown another head. “Huh?” Then he shakes his head and says, grumbling, “It all got so messed up – the whole video thing – it all started – ”

Trevor winces, tries to head him off the pass. “Yeah, I said I don’t wanna hear it because then there will be sides taken and friendships torn asunder and suddenly I will be very much without a girlfriend – ”

Peter quirks his brow at him. “I thought there was ‘nothing to see’ there.”

The bell rings. Up at the front, Lara Jean glances over her shoulder at them – the motion makes Peter turn to look back at her. Mr. Bezdek starts droning instructions for the trip, and, his voice lowered, Trevor hisses at Peter, “Just fix it, dude.”

Peter glares at him, but Trevor ignores him, sitting back in his chair. Well, he tried. If Peter can’t man up and get on his knees and beg or whatever, Trevor’ll just have to find another way to get back into Chris’ good graces.

Is there anything more difficult than the fucking girl code?

*

She’d thought he wanted it back. Wouldn’t he want the locket back? But then he _looked_ at her, and she realized, with slow-dawning horror _–_ no. He didn’t at all. Not at all.

He broke her heart.

_And I broke his heart . . ._

She almost calls out to him when he walks away. She almost says, “Peter, stop – wait – I didn’t mean it – ”

But it’s too late.

*

“Hey – so a bunch of us are going to Em’s,” Gen says, leaning against the locker next to Peter’s. “You want in?”

Peter doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head silently, sorting through his stuff.

“What?” Gen says, mockingly. “Lemme guess – LJ put her foot down and said no, we can’t talk anymore, we’re not allowed to be friends – ”

“Actually . . .” Peter clears his throat – it came out a lot more cracked than he’d thought it would. He starts again, taking his time loading up his backpack. In the front pocket, something jingles, metallic and loud and grating – it’s not his keys. He’d never bothered to take the locket out after she gave it back to him. He never wants to see it again. “No. She uh – she broke up with me.”

“O-oh. Sorry.” She pauses, then asks, not unkindly, “What happened?”

He sighs, closes his locker door – leans against it and stares up at the ceiling. He’s done dancing around things, trying to keep a peace that was never there to begin with. “You know how I said she didn’t know you were coming down to the tub? She never knew. I never told her you were coming. And then . . . she figured everything out.” He pushes off the lockers and glares at her. “She figured it out, because I accidentally let it slip that I knew it was you all along – that you saw us, and you posted the video.” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “So congrats, Gen, you got what you wanted. You hurt her – a girl I’m freaking crazy about. And you made sure to get me too, in the process. Thanks. Really, _really_ appreciate it.”

Gen pales, and swallows, folding her arms across her chest. “I – I’m sorry. I didn’t – I – ” Peter glares at her, exasperated. “I guess I did. I guess I did mean it, at the time. To get back at the both of you.” She shakes her head, repeatedly. “Not – not now.”

Peter rubs his temple, tired. He’s gone through everything that’s happened the past week – the past few months – hell, even back when they were kids. And he still can’t figure it out. “You know, whatever happened between you two?” he asks, quietly. “You two used to be tight as hell. And then all of a sudden you hate each other. Don’t tell me it’s about me – ” Gen is laughing, giving him a look like she thinks he’s the stupidest thing on the planet. “What is it?” She starts to snort with laughter. “What? Come on.”

“Guys are _so_ dumb,” she says, chuckling bitterly. “Are you kidding me? It wasn’t _just_ about you, Peter. No offense. It was her whole Miss Goody-Two-Shoes act. Heads up – girl code. She broke it.”

“What are you even – ”

“Peter.” She gives him an exasperated, knowing look. “If Trevor or Greg turned around and started dating LJ right now, would _you_ like it?” she says. “She knew I liked you. She went after you.”

“It was _spin the bottle_ – the bottle literally landed on me – ”

“No, she liked you before that. And she didn’t _have_ to kiss you. And, to top it all off, she and Chrissy banded together against _me._ ” Her voice quivers. “Giggling behind my back. Bitching about me when they thought I wasn’t listening. I lost my best friend and my cousin. To each other. Do you know how much all that _sucked_ back then?”

Peter shifts awkwardly, uncomfortable. He can’t really imagine LJ acting that way. But then again, he can’t really remember how everything went down – it was ages ago. He’d liked Lara Jean, had always noticed her and her headband since the sixth grade assembly – but then Gen was always around – and his parents seemed to start fighting all the time – LJ hadn’t seemed interested – and – things just seemed to fall into a certain kind of place, where the girls all weren’t talking to each other, and John McClaren moved away, and they all just –

He rubs the back of his neck, rueful. “We were all kids,” he says, lamely.

“Yeah . . . well . . . guess we all grew up, too.” Gen shoulders her backpack – gives him a final look, sincere and contrite. “Sorry about you and LJ.”

Peter shrugs and looks away, mutters his thanks. He just heads to the locker rooms to get ready for practice. The truth is really simple. It wasn’t just about Gen, just like it wasn’t just about him between Gen and LJ. He didn’t want to hurt Covey, but he didn’t want to hurt himself, too. He didn’t want her to see what a dickbag he was – and still is. Someone not worth it.

Someone not worth being chosen.

*

“I think I messed everything up,” Lara Jean murmurs into her phone, days after the aquarium trip, when she finally decides to answer one of Margot’s persistent FaceTimes. She’s close to passing out on the floor of her bedroom. “Gogo – his face . . .” She shudders. Seeing at him school since then has been horrible. She doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at her. She had to change her seat in English and at lunch time, since it’s too cold to eat on the bleachers, she sits in the library with Chris or Lucas.

“Lara Jean,” Margot sighs. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. He did an awful thing. The video – my god, your life could’ve been ruined. Colleges google that kind of stuff. Protecting Gen like that – and that thing at your locker – it was bad. And then _still_ talking to her afterwards!”

“You’re obligated to say that, you’re my sister,” Lara Jean sniffles. “B-but . . . what if he’s sorry?” She wipes her eyes. “What if I’m sorry too?” And then she laughs, harsh and bitter, “What if I can’t get over it? Everything he did? Everything that _I_ did?”

Margot doesn’t answer for a long time. “If you’re sorry, and he’s sorry, then . . . I don’t know what to say,” she finally admits. “Just – be kind to yourself. Okay? You’re not the only one who needs to get over some things.”

They hang up after Lara Jean agrees to get back into bed. But she never does. She just drifts off on the floor, tired and restless and aching.

*

_“Do you like him?”_

_“Like who?” Lara Jean’s little face turned squirrelly, evasive._

_Liar. Gen narrowed her eyes at her. “Do you like him?”_

_This time, she stopped playing dumb. “N-no,” Lara Jean said, nervously._

_“What’s this, the Spanish Inquisition?” Chrissy butted in. Gen turned her gaze to her cousin. She was always doing that lately. Interrupting when she wasn’t wanted. Cracking stupid jokes. Making fun of her, like everything she did was stupid or boring. Nudging LJ whenever she did. “Whoever LJ likes is none of your business. Come on, Lara Jean.” She hooked her arm through LJ’s and pulled her towards the other end of the cafeteria – past the boys’ table. Gen watched the way Peter’s head turned slightly, and balled up her napkin in frustration._

I’ll show them.

I don’t need them.

_She picked up her tray and marched over to the boys’ table. She sat down next to Peter. Trevor and John looked up in surprise, but then they continued talking about those stupid video games boys are always on about._

_“Hey, Peter,” she said, sweetly. He looked a little startled, but he smiled back, nervously. “What’s up?”_

*

As she goes to the car, Lara Jean sees Mrs. Rothschild planting flowers in her front yard. Her neighbor waves at her, and suddenly struck, Lara Jean walks over.

“Hey, Mrs. Rothschild,” she says.

“Girl, I told you, call me Trina,” she says, waving her off.

Lara Jean smiles, nervously. “Trina. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Trina says. She nods at the keys Lara Jean’s clutching her hand. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah. I’m meeting a – a friend.” Sorta. Lara Jean chews on her lip, wondering if she’s overstepping. “Mrs. – _Trina._ Can I ask you something?”

“Sure!” Trina sets down her spade and brushes off her gloves. “Ask away.”

“Did you ever – like – I know you’re divorced – but did you ever get over your husband?” Trina’s eyes go wide, and embarrassed, Lara Jean winces and blushes. This is something _Kitty_ would totally say. “You know what, I’m so sorry – I shouldn’t have – ”

“No, no, no, it’s fine, I just – wow, was not expecting _that_!” Trina says, laughingly. She clears her throat. “Well, you know – it just didn’t work out. That happens. Happens all the time. Am I over it?” She shrugs, tilting her head as if considering. “Yeah. Maybe not totally. But I’m getting there. It takes time.” She looks at her. “Why? You and that cute boyfriend of yours at Fakesgiving didn’t – ”

“Uh, yeah, um, we did,” Lara Jean says, quietly.

Trina’s face falls. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says, quickly. “But – that wasn’t actually why I asked. I mean, part of it was but – anyway, I was just thinking about relationships in general. Friendships, mostly,” she says, mumbling the last part.

Trina takes off her gardening gloves and stands up. “Those can take some getting over too,” she says. She smiles kindly at her. “But hopefully, you can work it out. Good ones never really leave you. They’re with you for life.”

*

Gen blinks, brushing some stray strands of hair from her eyes as she gets out of her car. She walks through the garden arch into the backyard. She can’t see her, but she knows Lara Jean’s there, in the tree house. It’s like a pull, something deep in her.

She hadn’t known why, exactly, LJ decided to text her. And she doesn’t know why she even bothered to reply. When she got into the car, she thought, “Finally – I’m going to let that bitch have it.” But then she started driving over here and she couldn’t’ help but wonder if that’s exactly what LJ was thinking about her.

And that she deserves it, too.

And so Genevieve wipes her hands on the thighs of her jeans, sets her hands on the ladder, and creaks up the old wooden prongs, to finally talk to her old best friend.

*

For the longest time, they don't speak.

But eventually, Lara Jean clears her throat. “I shouldn’t have kissed him. I knew you liked him. For like, ever.” She plays with the laces of her shoes. “I think it was because I was so amazed that someone else liked me back? And I thought – you know – why not . . .”

Gen doesn’t say anything. And then finally, she murmurs, “ . . . You were right.” Lara Jean looks at her questioningly. “It was without tongue.” Gen shrugs, gazing off into the middle distance.

“But it wasn’t to you,” she says.

“No, it wasn’t,” Gen admits. “For the longest time, I thought I wanted him – and then when it was like – he didn’t want me and I thought – no way, that couldn’t be right.” Her brows dip, and she speaks slowly, like she’s puzzling it out. “Back then, his parents were fighting so much – and I think – sometimes I think he only asked me out just to like, get away from all that?” She shrugs. “I guess with _my_ parent splitting up, I just started realizing things.”

Lara Jean looks down. “I’m really sorry about that. I can’t imagine.”

Gen shrugs. “They’re not a right fit for each other.” She looks at her shoes herself. “I walked in on them on a fight – like, Superbowl Sunday, of all days. And Anna Hicks comes running out of their bedroom.”

“Anna . . .” Lara Jean frowns, remembering the name. “Oh my _god._ She was in _Margot’s_ year.”

“Yeah,” Gen huffs, bitterly. “ _Disgusting_.” Then she says, quickly, “Don’t tell anyone. Not even Peter knows that. He just knows I saw his mistress.” She huffs. “Such a stupid word. ‘Mistress.’”

“No, I won’t,” Lara Jean says, just as quickly. “I – wow. I’m so sorry. But – but wouldn’t it better if you told someone else? Like, Chris?”

Gen makes a face. “Chrissy wouldn’t care. She hates me. You and her – well, never mind.”

Lara Jean looks away, face burning. If someone had asked her what had happened in middle school, she would have said Gen just all of a sudden started hating her and Chris. That suddenly the playdates and sleepovers just stopped, replaced by the parties Gen wanted to go to that Chris found boring and Lara Jean found intimidating. But what if that wasn’t really the way that happened? She used to think she and Chris banned together to snicker over how silly or mean or shallow Gen was being. But what if they were also the ones being silly and mean, too?

“Anyway, Peter’s always trying to get me to go talk to somebody,” Gen says, scuffing the floorboards with the tip of her Uggs.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Lara Jean says. “When my mom – when she died, Dad made us all go. It did help. He came, too.”

Gen glances at her, and the way she does it makes Lara Jean think she’s spooked a cat. Before she can say something, Gen’s phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her sweatshirt pocket and checks. “I gotta go, it’s my mom,” she says, and stands up abruptly.

“O-okay.” Lara Jean stands too and watches as she descends the ladder, not knowing what to do. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.” Gen stops, then meets her gaze fully. “I just wanted to let you know, I deleted the video from my cloud and my phone. No one else has copies.”

The bit of tension in Lara Jean’s stomach loosens into a relieved sense of warmth. “Thank you.” She nibbles on her lip, and offers, quietly, “I wouldn’t have – I didn’t do it to throw it in your face, or – I didn’t know you were on the way – ”

Gen nods once, slowly. “Well, that’s Kavinsky for you,” she says, lightly. “Not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

Lara Jean bursts into giggles before she can help herself – quickly, she claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and red-faced and snickering. Gen tries to stop her giggling too, pressing her lips together taut. “See ya,” she says, and disappears down the ladder.

Lara Jean smiles and lies down on the tree house floor, elbows propping her up. She used to come here every day – to giggle over stuff with Gen and Chris, to read with John Ambrose, to hang out with all the boys and girls together. _I am going to miss this place,_ she thinks, looking over the weather-beaten walls – the childish decorations, bits of toys and paper strewn about.

And before she leaves, she notices one last thing – that Gen took her friendship bracelet with her.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Trina is based on a behind the scenes still posted by Sarayu Blue. Apparently, Trina and LJ had a scene together that was deleted right before she went to see Gen at the treehouse.
> 
> Now, onto something else.
> 
> Guys – thanks for reading and commenting and kudo-ing. 
> 
> I have to address something that’s recently come up with alarming frequency, perhaps because I’ve reached the most controversial parts of PSISLY. The comments section in my fics are not the place to call LJ (or any female character for that matter) a “bitch” or tell me that you think “Peter deserves better” or that you think LJ cheated. The characters may refer to each other in derogatory ways, but that’s because that’s their character … and they’re teenagers. 
> 
> It is extremely disheartening to write fic for fun, about characters I love, and receive notes like these in my inbox. I had to delete these comments and then I believe one of the individuals came back under a different name to comment and insist upon their assertions again. Maybe it's their way of telling me I'm not doing a very good job of interpreting/reinterpreting the material to make LJ sympathetic, or Peter more understandable.
> 
> I’m too old, too tired, and too busy with my children, my husband, my job, and dealing all with that in a pandemic to bother with this kind of nonsense. All such comments have been deleted and I will continue to delete such comments and not engage directly. If it gets too much I will shut off comments completely. 
> 
> Sincere thanks to people who have been super nice and supportive and able to give constructive criticism without devolving into casual misogyny.
> 
> TL;DR - be nice, don't be an asshole, thanks. <3


	21. Snow

“Peter? When did you get this?”

Peter looks up from loading the dishwasher. “Huh?” Mom’s looking over her shoulder at him from the living room, where she’s folding laundry. She stands up and holds out something wrinkled in her hand. “What’s that?”

“You tell me, I just pulled it from your sweatshirt pocket.”

Oh. Suddenly, he remembers. “Yeah – that – ” he says, scrabbling the back of his head.

“Peter this is incredible! Why didn’t you tell me!” Mom exclaims, jumping up and running to the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Owen yells from upstairs.

“Your brother is getting recruited to Stanford!” Mom yells back, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him excitedly.

“What?!” Owen comes running down the steps. “That’s awesome! Can you get me a sweatshirt? And a beanie? I want one with the logo – ”

Peter winces. “No – wait, Mom – ”

“I’m not even mad at you for not cleaning out your pockets before putting stuff in the laundry!” she says, pulling his face down towards hers so she can kiss his cheek. “I can’t believe it!”

“Mom!” Peter disentangles himself. “Chill out! It’s not official! He wants to see me play again. Said he’ll come by before the end of the season. He just gave me the card so you can call him if you have any questions. That’s it.”

“Well, you’re doing much better in trig now, and if he wants to see you again then it’s just inev – wait, when did he see you play in the first place? When did this happen?”

He shuts the dishwasher, avoiding her gaze and shrugging. The mention of pulling up his trig grade needles him, makes him itch. “Dunno. Against Gresham – the away game.”

“ . . . Peter Kavinsky, that was over a week ago! Why didn’t you tell me the second you met him?” Mom gapes at him, astonished. “He probably thinks we’re not interested now! Do you think it’s too late to call? Oh god, it’s the weekend – of course this is his office phone – maybe an e-mail, an e-mail is less intrusive – Peter, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this!”

He shrugs again. “Just forgot.”

“You don’t ‘forget’ a recruiter from Stanford came up to you and – ” Mom stops, studying him. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, suddenly so very fed up with everything. “I’m just gonna go to bed.”

“It’s a Saturday – aren’t you going to go out, celebrate with your fr – ”

“Not feeling it.” He brushes past her and runs up the stairs to his bedroom. The last thing he needs right now is to hang out with everybody and get drunk. That would be a very bad idea. Instead, he shuts the door and leans his forehead against it, sighing deeply.

The last week of school just killed him. Lara Jean wouldn’t even look his way, especially not after the aquarium. He’d honestly thought if he could just _talk_ to her she’d understand. Instead she just . . .

He flops on his bed, grabs his phone from the nightstand, and turns the music up on the loudest, angriest song he can find.

It takes a couple of knocks for Peter to finally hear his mother. Rolling his eyes, he lowers the song. “Come in.”

“Hey.” Mom comes in and shuts the door behind her. Peter rolls onto his stomach, lacing his fingers underneath his chin, and stares at the headboard. She sits down next to him on the bed. “What’s going on, bud?”

“Nothing.” Everything. “Look, sorry for not telling you earlier about the recruiter. It was all – it got a little crazy, and – yeah, I just forgot.”

“Okay. That’s understandable.” She pats his shoulder. “Petey, I’m sorry I put so much pressure on you.”

Peter sighs and buries his face in his pillow. “No, that’s not it,” he grumbles, muffled. He hates it when Mom does this – acts all apologetic and sorry about the divorce, the single-mom thing. It’s not her fault. In fact, it’s the opposite of her fault.

“Your dad isn’t going to help with college. And I can’t afford it all by myself. And Stanford – or even it ends up _not_ being Stanford – if they’re interested in you, and you can get that scholarship – that is it, bud. You’re set. I am _so_ proud of you.”

Proud. Right. She definitely wasn’t proud about the video. And she wouldn’t be proud now, if she knew everything. Just like Lara Jean . . .

“I know.”

“Then what is it?” Mom hesitates, and then says, “I haven’t seen Lara Jean around in a while.” _Well, here we go._ When he doesn’t answer, she adds, quietly, “You weren’t like this before.”

_Before?_ He doesn’t know what that means, for a second. Although yeah – now that he thinks about it, he wasn’t. With Gen, he’d been angry. Hurt. But it was his pride mostly. Not – not like this.

He lifts his head from the pillow, but doesn’t turn to look at her. “Yeah, uh – we . . . we’re taking a break.”

“Okay . . . are you okay with that?”

_The opposite of okay._ “Yeah. I guess.”

Mom ruffles his hair gently. “Peter, it’s okay not to be okay with it. It’s okay to you know – talk about things. Let people know things.” He doesn’t reply to that. Mom sighs, leans over, and wraps her arms around his neck from behind.

“Ouch! You’re squishing me!” he jokes.

“Just remember who used to win in wrestling matches.”

“I started beating you at _eight._ ”

“Just because you got tall.” She squeezes, once, lets go, and plants a kiss on the top of his head. “Look, kid – you’re still young. Don’t sweat it. Ever hear of fish and the sea?”

Peter ignores the last bit as she leaves. She’s always on about that, too – don’t worry, you’re young. She was like that when he and Gen broke up.

But Mom doesn’t get it. Lara Jean might as well have sucker punched him in the gut. The feeling of nausea still hasn’t left him. Nor the look on her face when he left. And that’s probably the worst thing about it all. That he’d hid all this shit from her, trying not to hurt her - to have her look at him like she did at the bus, betrayed and disgusted - wide-eyed and hurting and yet so far away from him at the aquarium - and ... and have everything that he was scared of happening come true, anyway.

Not for the first time that night, Peter brings up Instagram on his phone and scrolls through his feed. He very pointedly doesn’t look at Covey’s. For one thing, he really doesn’t want to find out if she blocked him. Or if she didn’t, and only to find out she’d deleted all their pictures. He hadn’t the heart to do it on his, yet.

A bunch of people have posted about the sudden snow storm, which makes him scoff. People act as if it’s never snowed in Oregon at all. It’s only like, an inch. It’ll melt by tomorrow morning. _Gimme a break._

Instagram disappears suddenly, replaced by the screen for an incoming call, from Gen. Peter hits accept. “Hey.”

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.” She clears her throat. “I - uh - um I’m not calling about me, actually.”

“ ... Ooookay?” Cautious, he sits up, rests his elbows on his knees. “What’s up?”

She waits for a very long time, before she says, quietly, “So. LJ and I talked. And uh ... we cleared the air.”

Huh.

“And I just wanted to let you know that we’re ... cool, now, I guess.” She pauses. “And ... she misses you.”

His head is spinning. Pigs are flying through a really cold hell. _What the fuck ...?_

“Um, how do you know that?” is the only intelligible thing that he can get out.

Gen snorts. “A girl can tell,” she says, so dryly that he has to laugh. “I thought you should know.” He can hear her mom call for her. “I gotta go. We’re doing a girls night. We, uh – just came back from a family therapy session today. Thought you’d like to know.”

“That’s – that’s great,” he says sincerely.

“Thanks.”

“Not going out?”

“Nah, it’s snowing. Movies and manis. See you later.”

“Later.” He drops his phone on the bed, shaking his head in disbelief. But then he looks out the window. Frowning, he gets up and peers into the darkness.

Still snowing.

He thinks about the promises they made, how they got broken so easily. Where they went wrong, in trying not to hurt each other. How much he’s been lost these past few days, thinking about her and ...

She’d be at Belleview right now, wouldn’t she? She’d be at Belleview with ...

Peter searches for his keys, grabs his coat. Maybe he’s just getting ready to get absolutely, well and truly wrecked. Maybe she’ll just break his heart all over again.

He just knows that she can have it.

He pulls the necklace out of his backpack, throws on his coat, and runs down the stairs, out into the snow.

*

They’re laughing, snorting so loudly that the few people in the diner are beginning to stare and shake their heads – _Kids these days._ Lara Jean also doesn’t care. Because she’s laughing again, she feels like she could float away again – all because of the face Peter made when the waitress forgot to put whipped cream on his pancakes. Stuffed in a corner booth at the diner late at night, still wearing her party dress, sipping at her milkshakes with Peter.

And she can’t stop laughing.

“What? What?” he asks, still cackling, his face scrunched up with glee, and that does it, she collapses in a fresh round of giggles, because he just looks so cute. So cute and happy.

“Nothing, I – nothing,” she gasps out, and he laughs again, and then it hits her – this could be perfect. This is perfect. This is –

It’s not perfect, though. Because it can’t be.

She sobers, bites her lip. His laughter fades. “What?” he asks, quietly – cautiously, and she shakes her head, more at herself than at him. Because that’s how this all happened, isn’t it? Them – trying not to hurt each other, being too careful. And you can’t do that, not when you’re _not_ fake-dating. Life isn’t a dreamscape, protected in a glass ball, where no one gets hurt.

She takes a deep breath. “If we’re gonna do this again, we’re gonna do this right.”

He seems to get it. “All in? For real?”

She nods. He holds out his fist for a bump. She knocks her fist against his own. Then he leans back in his chair and gestures at the table, as if telling her to go first.

She folds her hands on the table and looks at him, biting her lip. “Cardona’s.” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he nods once. “You took Gen there.”

“ . . . Yeah?” he says, not understanding.

She can feel herself blush. It suddenly sounds so petty, saying it out loud. “I thought – you know – it was our first date . . . _my_ first date – and I wanted it to be special, and it turns out it was something you and Gen already did . . .”

He thumbs his lower lip, looks askance at her. “We only went, like, twice,” he says, “and both times – she asked me to take her. Not for anything special. Just – you know. And it wasn’t anything special then.”

Twice. Gen had made it seem like they spent every weekend at Cardona’s . . . “I’m stupid,” she mumbles.

“Nah, you’re not,” he says, reassuring. He looks at his shoes, shame-faced. “Shoulda brought you to some place better, is all.”

“It was beautiful,” she says, immediately – because it was. Her first date was the perfect first date. “I’ll always remember it, because _you_ brought me there. It could’ve been Cardona’s or some other restaurant in Portland – or – or here.”

“Here?” Peter looks around, at the near-empty diner, at their half-eaten pancakes and milkshakes. “This place isn’t spe – ” He stops, then looks around again, and smiles at her. And then she knows he’s seeing what she’s seeing – the same place where he’d confronted her about her letter and her kiss. The same place they went to after Greg’s party. “Never mind.”

She grins at him, big and bright, and kisses him on the mouth softly, just once.

When she pulls back she gives him an almost apologetic, tiny smile. “I don’t want to go to so many parties anymore. Like. Once in a while is okay. Just not like ...”

“Every weekend?”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip, then says, “Sorry,” deliberately forcing herself to not add the unspoken question mark at the end. Because she’s not sorry. She doesn’t want to go all the time. “It just gets a little much sometimes. I can’t – ”

“Deal?”

She nods rapidly, relieved that he didn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” He gives her a long, measuring look. “And I ... want you to dress up on game days. You don’t have to go all out. But - it’s nice. To see you like that.”

“For you?” she whispers, noticing how his voice had gone low, his eyes soft.

“Yeah.” He plays with the rhinestone pins in her hair. “Plus. The shorts are hot.”

She snorts with laughter, her forehead hitting his shoulder. “That’s not the real reason,” she says, muffled against his sweatshirt.

“ . . . Well, it’s a significant part but - ”

She slaps his other shoulder, and he laughs, and pulls her back to him for a brief kiss. She rubs some of her lipstick off his mouth, and he grabs her wrist. “You sure you’re not – you know – mad about the poem? The singing telegram?”

Her brows knit. He’s really bothered by it. “I guess I thought the singing telegram thing – you now, like, it was just something you do. For couples. But . . . it really _isn’t_ my style. The poem . . . yeah, it is my kind of thing.” His face falls, troubled, and she says, “Okay, writing may not be your thing. But that doesn’t mean you can’t show me you how much you care with other stuff.”

“Yeah?” His eyes light up and he leans in closer, deliberately flirtatious. It makes her heart thump, but a slow beat, like she’s dreamy, under weater. “Like how?”

Lara Jean leans closer too, until she’s about to kiss him. “Like . . . finishing _Pride and Prejudice_ with me.”

Peter laughs. “I was gonna do that anyway!”

“But you never did!” she wails, playfully insulted.

“Because you fell asleep during _The Fast & the Furious_!” he says, over her laughter. “Look – trust me – you will like the movies. There’s a shit ton of romance in there. And, hey, that Han guy – I know you’ll find him hot.”

Okay, when he puts it like _that . . ._ “There are movi _es_ as in plural?”

“Isn’t there like, 15 different versions of _Pride and Prejudice_?”

“And you will watch every single one of them with me,” Lara Jean insists, poking his side.

“Like I said, I was already gonna do that anyway,” Peter says, practically. She snickers. “Hey. I got an idea on how to show you how much I care.”

“Yeah?”

He holds up a finger – _wait a second._ Then he turns and reaches for something in his coat, hanging on his chair. Before he opens up his palm, Lara Jean already knows what’s in there, glistening in the low diner light. She traces one finger over the love heart in the center – glances up at him, to see him watching her tenderly.

Without a word, she turns in her seat – lifts up her hair. Peter settles the locket against her collarbone and clasps the chain around her neck. It feels cool, the weight familiar – back where it belongs.

She turns back to face him. “You like it?” he asks, gently.

“I love it.”

“Good.” His gaze turns joking, teasing. “Because it was really expensive and I had to work really hard to get my trig grade up.”

“What?” Lara Jean’s jaw drops. “You did that? That’s why you were so obsessed with trig all of a sudden?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, strangely bashful. “Got it from my mom’s store, and I couldn’t afford it, so we struck a deal.” Her heart warms over – she _thought_ she vaguely remembered the pattern from somewhere. But yes – now that he says it, she can recall it very clearly, sitting in the display case in his mother’s shop.

“So what was the deal?” she asks, curious.

“Get my trig grade up to a B.”

“And did you?”

Peter grimaces and tugs at his ear. “ . . . Shyeaaah, we’re still working on that?”

Lara Jean bursts out laughing, and so does he. She lays her head on his shoulder, giggling. God. It wasn’t even that funny, and she can’t stop laughing.

But they have to go. It’s so late, it’s actually morning, the sky lightening steadily into a muted blue-grey. They pay, and when they get outside, Lara Jean is surprised to find that most of the snow is already gone. She holds his hand on the drive home, but when they approach the Roberts’ house on the way back, she tugs at his hand.

“Peter, look,” she says, startled to find a construction truck parked in the driveway. “Stop.”

“What’s up?”

“Look – they’re taking down the tree house.”

“Already?” he says, turning off the engine. “No way.”

“Come on.” She unbuckles her seatbelt.

“Wait. Stay there.” Peter gets out first, and she giggles when he appears at the passenger side and opens her door. “Didn’t want you to fall,” he says, helping her down with her long dress and high heels.

“I did fine at the diner,” she reminds him, smiling, as she notches herself against his side.

He shakes his head at her. “Well, I promised, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” _He remembered._ “You did.”

Together, they watch the construction workers start to take apart the old tree house, as the sun begins to rise.

*

It’s still dark, but not by much, by the time Peter gives her a final kiss at the doorstop. She watches him go from the entrance, and only shuts the door when she sees him drive off. Then she creeps up the darkened staircase, holding her high heels.

Only to run straight into Kitty, standing at the top in her pajamas and a robe, and drinking a cup of tea.

“Nice dress,” she whispers, sipping her tea noisily.

Lara Jean looks over Kitty’s shoulder towards Dad’s closed bedroom door. With a heavy sigh, she digs into her purse and slaps the ten dollar bill into Kitty’s outstretched palm.

Kitty grins, expectant and eager. “Sooooo? Are you back with Peter? Is it official? Tell me all the details, but spare me the cheesy ones – ”

“Good _night_ , Katherine,” Lara Jean says, brushing by to get into her room.

There’s no time to do a full-out night routine without using the bathroom and waking up her father. So she just uses some make-up wipes and moisturizer, carefully hangs up Stormy’s beautiful dress, and throws on her pajamas.

But before she goes to bed, she sits down at her desk. She takes out her best stationery, thick cream stock with a colorful flowers motif on the left-hand corner. She takes out her good, inky pen, the kind that flies onto the page smooth as silk.

And then she writes a letter.

_Dear John Ambrose –_

_I don’t know if you’ll read this. I don’t think I deserve it. But I just wanted to let you know that I’m very sorry. When I wrote you that first letter, I was a kid. I meant every word, but that was back then._

_I was sad and lonely about things that didn’t involve you, and you got caught in the crossfire. And I got caught up in thinking “What if?” That was unfair of me, and I apologize._

_I will understand if you don’t accept my apology. But I wanted to thank you too. Thank you for being a good guy, for helping me to understand a few things about myself. I’ll always be grateful for that._

She stops, unsure how to sign it. “Best wishes” or “sincerely” sound so formal. “Love,” even if meant in the friendly type of way, isn’t right either. She finally decides simply on her name, hoping that John Ambrose will understand, in the sweet, kind way he’s always had to understand things. Then she goes over to her closet to take out her original letter to him, and his reply letter to her. She folds all three letters together, slides it into an envelope, and seals it.

She puts it on her desk, to go out with Monday’s mail.

And then, even though it’s morning, and the sun has begun to stream in warm rays through her window blinds, Lara Jean lies down and goes to sleep, dreaming of whirling around at a carnival with Peter . . . like they’re both flying, laughing so hard her belly aches and her cheeks hurt, and everywhere in the air there’s glitter falling.

-to be continued in the next work-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the diner scene is based on the promo stills used for (i believe) sephora's cross-promotion with PSISLY. wish we could've gotten it!
> 
> and with that, i'm free, i'm free, hahahaha, i'm free, dobby's a free elf.
> 
> now onto aaf-related stuff! i've got a few ~ideas but f anyone has a specific idea let me know! *clappy hands*


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